


tire marks burnin’ on the street

by thisismydesignn



Category: EXO (Band), NCT (Band), SHINee, SuperM (Korea Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Alternate Universe - Fast and the Furious Fusion, Alternate Universe - Police, Anal Sex, Car Sex, Clubbing, Crimes & Criminals, Found Family, Heist, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by The Fast and the Furious, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Police, Street Racing, Undercover, ride or die - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28547022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismydesignn
Summary: The best of the best,their boss had said, and it was hard not to be taken in by that—but when “the best of the best” meant the most dangerous jobs, the highest reward but also the highest risk, the disillusionment was quick to follow. They’ve all got scars, mental and physical, to show for even the races and jobs gone right, let alone those gone wrong. They're finally putting an end to it. Taking back some semblance of control while they still can.“Are you gonna miss it?” Taeyong asks. “I know it’s different for you, since you don’t drive, but…”And that’s another thing altogether: Mark Lee, ace of three different street racing teams since the age of eighteen, can’t drive to save his life.Or: the Fast & Furious AU that no one asked for
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Liu Yang Yang, Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Suh Youngho | Johnny, Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Lee Taeyong, Kim Jongin | Kai/Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Lee Taemin, Kim Jongin | Kai/Lee Taemin
Comments: 29
Kudos: 85





	1. i can't even handle myself

**Author's Note:**

> The whole fic is already complete—as someone who has been burned before, I promise this WIP will only remain a WIP for a short time!
> 
> Shoutouts to Claire, Lari and Amy for your encouragement and feedback (and car knowledge!) throughout the writing of this monstrosity.
> 
> Every member of NCT shows up at least once, even if they're not tagged—didn't want the tags to get too out of control. Fic title from [Mark’s Super Car trailer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWgi8gjC5V0); chapter titles from Super Car.

The Mustang speeds down roads lit with neon, passing few others—there’s hardly anyone out at this hour, that liminal space between the dead of night and the first hint of dawn. A man is waiting in the car park, leaning languidly against his own beat-up Buick, when the Mustang pulls up and the man inside cuts the engine.

“Do you have it?” Ten asks—no greeting, no preamble—as Yangyang steps out of the Mustang. Yangyang nods and reaches into his jacket, pulling out a minuscule USB drive and handing it over. Ten inspects it briefly before glancing up at Yangyang, an uncharacteristic urgency in his voice as he asks, “And it’s all here? Everything we’re going to need?”

“Kun ge says it is,” Yangyang tells him with a shrug. “That’s all I know.”

Ten’s shoulders relax the slightest bit, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “How is that old man?”

_He’s_ two months _older than you,_ Yangyang thinks, knows better than to say. “Y’know. Same as always.” Ten looks satisfied: at this response, at the device in his hand. He zips it into his jacket, a pocket hidden against his heart, and reaches out to ruffle Yangyang’s hair affectionately. “Thank you, baby.”

“Don’t call me baby,” Yangyang protests as he moves to duck away, more out of habit than actual discomfort. “I’m not your baby.”

Ten’s hand slips down to the back of Yangyang’s neck, his smile growing sharp, and Yangyang finds himself arching into the touch in spite of himself—but as quickly as it came, it’s gone, leaving the shadow of a smirk on Ten’s face and Yangyang aching for more. He keeps his hands in his pockets, though, nodding toward the car at Ten’s back instead. “Still driving that piece of shit?”

“Only when I’m trying to be inconspicuous,” Ten responds, gaze slipping past Yangyang to the vibrant red Mustang behind him. “Guess you didn’t get that memo.” Yangyang flushes. He’d nearly forgotten how every conversation with Ten feels like verbal sparring, like a constant fight for the upper hand. (He’d missed it, he realizes in the same breath.) He switches tactics, dropping all pretense as he fixes his gaze on Ten’s chest, on the place he’d just seen him tuck the drive away, secret, safe. “Do you really think you guys can pull this off?”

“We have to,” Ten says. It’s not an answer, but it isn’t untrue, either. Yangyang lets it slide and steps into Ten’s space, resting a hand on his hip, eyes darting down to Ten’s lips. “Let’s make it look like we met for a reason they won’t question, yeah?”

He doesn’t need to ask twice. Ten’s mouth is hot on his own as he backs Yangyang against the car, leaving him just enough room to grope for the door handle at his back. He gets the door open after a few tries, pulling Ten into the backseat with him gracelessly.

Ten’s teeth leave marks on Yangyang’s neck, deft fingers unzipping his jacket, and Yangyang pulls Ten back up to his lips, trying to memorize the way he tastes, the curve of his mouth. It’s cruel, in a way, when Ten says it aloud, murmuring it against his lips: “I missed you, baby.”

This time, Yangyang can’t bring himself to complain.

\---

When Ten gets back to the garage, Taemin is perched beside a jacked-up Camaro, speaking softly, eyes on the pair of legs extending from underneath. He looks up when the Buick pulls in, nudging deliberately at the other man’s ankle.

Jongin pushes himself out from under the Camaro and gets to his feet, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands as Ten steps out of his car. “Did you get it?” Taemin asks; Ten nods and pats the left side of his chest, indicating the USB hidden away. Jongin nods back, serious, the Camaro already forgotten beside him; Taemin is buzzing with adrenaline, leg bouncing, hand coming up to clasp Jongin’s.

Baekhyun enters a moment later, alerted by the Buick’s headlights, the same question on his lips. This time, Ten unzips his jacket and pulls out the drive to hand it over. Baekhyun takes it and slips it into the pocket of his jeans, hand coming back up just long enough to squeeze Ten’s shoulder. “Good work.” His eyes linger for a moment on Ten’s neck, on the marks Yangyang left behind; the hint of a smirk darts across Baekhyun’s lips, and Ten fights the urge to blush until he turns away. 

Jongin’s attention shifts to Baekhyun. “Have you made any progress with Bangtan yet, hyung?”

“Working on it,” Baekhyun says. “I’ve been talking to Taehyung.” 

Jongin’s brow creases. “Why him? Why not their leader?”

“Because I have history with Taehyung,” Baekhyun replies, and Jongin scoffs, “Yeah, the same way Taemin has _history_ with Jimin.” Taemin squeezes Jongin’s hand as he continues, “If that’s all it takes…”

“But I’m _our_ leader,” Baekhyun reminds him, “So it’s my job. I’m working on it, Nini.”

“Work faster,” Jongin mutters, regretting it immediately when Baekhyun fixes him with a look. “Sorry, hyung. I…”

Baekhyun cuts him off before he can say any more. Jongin’s stretched thin, he knows, working too hard to distract himself from what’s at stake. They all are—with everything on the line, they’re allowed their frustration. Baekhyun watches Jongin glance down at the one thing, the one person never in doubt—Taemin, hand still clutched in his own—and feels an ache in his chest that’s grown all too familiar. _We should have done this years ago_.

He dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes. There’s never been an opportunity like this, never been a job or a take big enough to get away with it. This time, for the first time, they have a chance, and they’re going to take it.

Jongin leans down to press a fleeting kiss to Taemin’s forehead. “I’m going to go find Lucas. See if he has any ideas about what to do with the Audi,” he says, releasing Taemin’s hand reluctantly and turning toward the house. “Last time I saw him he was taking a smoke break,” Baekhyun volunteers, and Jongin raises his eyebrows. “What? He told me he was working out. That kid…” He changes course, moving toward the open garage door instead just as someone new arrives, bicycle skidding to a halt moments before he collides with Jongin. “Oh, hey, Mark,” Jongin says, unfazed, offering a fist bump as he passes him by. Mark takes one hand off the bike to return it and then dismounts, wheeling it the rest of the way inside.

“What’s up?” Ten asks as Mark props his bike up against the wall. Baekhyun and Taemin are conversing quietly a few feet away, and Mark spares them a brief glance before answering. “Just went to see Dream. Haechanie wanted to show me something they’ve got planned for the race.” He shrugs, as though the reason for his visit is beside the point. “It was good to see them all again,” he adds quietly, and Ten rests a hand on the back of his head for a moment, fingers carding through Mark’s hair. He lets his hand fall back to his side as Baekhyun looks up, glancing around as though he’s just realized something. “Where’s Taeyong?”

“With 127,” Taemin answers. His tone turns teasing: “Maybe you should keep better track of your members, _leader_.”

“Aish! Watch it,” Baekhyun says, but he’s grinning. “I’ve got a lot on my mind these days.” It’s meant to be a joke, but no one laughs—they’re all well aware how true it is.

In the silence, Baekhyun’s phone dings. “It’s Taehyung,” he says after checking the message. “He wants to FaceTime.”

“Have fun, hyung,” Ten says with a smirk; Baekhyun waves him off and makes his way toward the house. “I’ll see you tomorrow, kids. Don’t get into too much trouble.”

“I’m gonna turn in too,” Mark echoes, following in Baekhyun’s footsteps. “'Night, guys.”

Taemin and Ten are left alone, the tension coming off of each of them in waves. Taemin notices for the first time how Ten hasn’t sat down, hasn’t stilled once since returning to the garage, picking up and setting down random pieces of equipment as though desperate for something to do with his hands. Voice gentle, Taemin asks the question he should’ve asked from the start: “How did it go?”

Now Ten freezes, his eyes meeting Taemin’s. “What do you mean?”

“Seeing Yangyang, for—what, the first time since you left? How was it?”

Ten hesitates, as though he’s choosing his words carefully. “It...seeing him...it brought a lot of stuff back. Stuff I haven’t thought about for a long time.”

“You miss them, don’t you?” Taemin asks, but it’s not a question. “I get it. Me too.”

Ten _knows_ , feels selfish for even mentioning it when it’s been even longer since Taemin has seen Shinee, when there’s no team left for him to return to, not anymore. He searches his mind for the right words to say until he realizes there are none; he goes to Taemin instead, curling up on the floor beside him and resting his head on Taemin’s thigh. _I’m sorry_ , Ten thinks, doesn’t have to say, and when Taemin’s fingers push into his hair, light against his scalp, he knows Taemin knows. He braces himself for more questions, more feelings he isn’t ready to confront, until:

“You want to play with Nini and I tonight?” Taemin asks instead, and Ten feels his pulse speed up—not for the first time tonight. “I think he could use the distraction,” Taemin continues, before adding, “Maybe you could, too.”

“I should...I should take a shower,” Ten says, hesitant. Taemin’s fingers brush deliberately across one of the bruises beginning to blossom on the underside of Ten’s jaw. “You don’t have to,” Taemin says, feels Ten tense—at the implication of Taemin’s words, at the ache his touch leaves behind. “Either way,” Taemin reassures him, and when Ten lifts his head to meet Taemin’s eyes, his answer is clear: _please_.

Taemin’s thumb traces across Ten’s lower lip, watching as Ten opens up for him, lingering only a moment. He pulls back while he still can, smile warming at the way Ten’s face falls, and gets to his feet, pulling Ten up with him. “C’mon. Let’s go find him.”

\---

Taeyong resurfaces late the next morning, still in yesterday’s clothes. Taemin, Jongin and Ten are seated around the kitchen table, getting a late start themselves, when they hear the front door open and shut; they look up as Taeyong enters, making a beeline for the coffee with a mumbled greeting. Baekhyun, leaning against the counter with a file in one hand and mug in the other, raises his eyebrows, but Taeyong doesn’t notice until he speaks. “Late night?”

“Early morning,” Taeyong counters, reaching over to grab the sugar. As he does so, the neck of his shirt gapes; there's an unmistakable hickey on his collarbone, and Ten smirks against his mug. He's one to talk, he knows, covered in marks of his own from last night, but he can't help himself: “How’s Doyoung, hyung?”

Taeyong glances up at Ten, eyes wide; follows his gaze back to his own chest and tugs his shirt back into place, his expression turning sour. “I don’t know, Ten. Tell me, how is Johnny hyung these days?” he bites back. He doesn't wait for a response, exiting the kitchen (mug in hand, sugar forgotten), the door to his room snapping shut out of sight moments later. Baekhyun and Jongin watch him go, but Taemin is focused on Ten instead, on the way his face had fallen at Taeyong’s words. He composes himself quickly, rearranging his features into a more neutral expression, and Taemin looks away, letting Ten believe the flicker of vulnerability had gone unobserved.

It strikes Taemin as a bit cruel, Taeyong’s response, designed to hit him where it hurts most. Ten’s laundry list of exes is undeniably long—Taeyong himself included, Taemin and Jongin somewhere in between, half of WayV and god knows who else—but Johnny stands out among them. The one that Ten still isn’t over, even after all these years. Even if he won’t admit it to himself, let alone anyone else. (Even if they can all see it.)

Taemin’s distracted from this train of thought when Baekhyun speaks up once more, eyes on Ten. “Can we please try not to antagonize each other? This is only going to work if we aren’t at each others' throats.”

“Sorry, hyung,” Ten says, but his sheepish tone doesn’t quite match the stubborn set of his jaw. Baekhyun lets it slide. “Thank you.” He checks the time, looking between the clock on the microwave and the file in his hand. “Shit. Does he remember we have a meeting?” From the looks on their faces, it’s clear the others had forgotten as well. Baekhyun scrubs a hand down his face just as Mark wanders in from the garage, looking at him with concern. “What’s up, hyung?”

“Did _you_ remember we have a meeting?” Baekhyun asks, sounding like he's grasping at straws, and Mark nods. “That’s why I came in—I was gonna grab the specs for the Supra and the Maserati...” He trails off with a vague gesture in the direction of his room, looking between the members uncertainly, and Baekhyun turns back to the others, eyebrows raised. “If our maknae can remember…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Ten gets to his feet, gulping down the last of his coffee and making his exit. Baekhyun glances at Mark once more. “Do you mind reminding Taeyong? He’s in his room.” Mark nods once more, still looking a bit like a deer caught in the headlights as Baekhyun adds, “And Lucas…”

“He’s in the garage already,” Mark offers helpfully, and Baekhyun clicks his tongue in approval. “Great.”

Mark heads down the hall after Ten; Baekhyun waits for his knock on Taeyong’s door, his soft, “It’s me, hyung,” and the sound of the door opening and closing before he directs his attention back to Taemin and Jongin. “Keep an eye on Taeyong, will you?” he asks, keeping his voice low, looking like he hates himself for doubting even as he makes the request. He doesn’t say _I know we should trust our own, but_ , doesn’t say _there’s too much at stake._ He knows they already know.

“What are you worried about, hyung?” Jongin asks. “We’ve all got history with our old teams.”

“That’s just it,” Baekhyun says. “History. It’s fine if he’s still sleeping with Doyoung, as long as it’s not distracting him from the bigger picture. As long as he’s not gonna make any reckless decisions.”

"And you're not worried about Ten?"

"Ten's…better at compartmentalizing. He knows what needs to be done." Baekhyun takes a sip of his coffee, considering his next words. "I've seen the look in Taeyong's eyes when he starts talking about Doyoung. …It reminds me of you two."

Taemin and Jongin exchange a look ("There. That," Baekhyun says), and Jongin squeezes Taemin's knee beneath the table. Baekhyun continues, "That being said, if Ten does get back together with Johnny…let me know."

“Soon you’re gonna have us all ‘keeping an eye’ on each other, hyung,” Jongin quips. His tone is lighthearted; his comment is anything but. Baekhyun offers him a wry smile in response, taking another sip of his coffee and turning back to the file in his hand.

\---

Taeyong sits cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by pillows, one clutched tightly in his arms as he stares across the room, unseeing. His mug of coffee, still steaming slightly, is abandoned on the bedside table; Mark is perched at the end of his bed, rolling a loose thread that’s escaped from Taeyong’s comforter between his fingers and waiting for him to speak.

“Come in,” Taeyong had said when he knocked, then patted the bed as an invitation for Mark to sit; “We have a meeting,” Mark reminded him even as he made himself comfortable, and Taeyong just nodded, though Mark isn’t sure he heard him at all. It’s okay, he thinks: he’s more than used to waiting out Taeyong’s long silences, the years they’ve worked together lending them a familiarity they share with few others.

It started with Taeyong as his leader in 127, before the two of them were thrown together with the others into SuperM. _The best of the best_ , their boss, Mr. Lee, had said, and it was hard not to be taken in by that—but when “the best of the best” meant the most dangerous jobs, the highest reward but also the highest risk, the disillusionment was quick to follow. They’ve all got scars, mental and physical, to show for even the races and jobs gone right, let alone those gone wrong, which is why they're finally putting an end to it. Taking back some semblance of control while they still can.

“Are you gonna miss it?” Taeyong asks, finally breaking the silence. “I know it’s different for you, since you don’t drive, but…”

And that’s another thing altogether: Mark Lee, ace of three different street racing teams since the age of eighteen, can’t drive to save his life. He’s great with computers, with the equipment and tech in the cars his teams drive and the systems they take down, but he’s useless behind the wheel. He’s fairly sure the boss gets a kick out of it: moving him around teams (first Dream, then 127, now SuperM) like he’s the missing link when he doesn’t even have a license of his own. It suits Mark just fine, though he often wonders if the other members feel the same—if they resent him playing such a large role when he isn’t putting himself physically in danger, out on the line, like they are. (If only they knew.)

“Of course,” Mark says. “Yeah, it’s different, but...there’s still that adrenaline rush when we pull off a job, you know? I’m gonna miss that. I’m gonna miss this house...this city. Not to mention the paydays,” and at that, Taeyong can’t help but chuckle. “If we pull this one off, we’re never gonna have to worry about money again.” Mark tilts his head, acknowledging his point. “And, I mean. You guys,” he adds, not quite managing to meet Taeyong’s gaze as he says it. “We’ve been together for so long...it’s gonna be so weird going our separate ways.” He still isn’t looking at Taeyong, but he can feel him nodding his agreement.

“Where are you gonna go, Mark?” Taeyong asks, sounding genuinely curious, and this time Mark does meet his eyes, offering him a careful smile. “Hyung, you know we’re not supposed to ask each other that,” he says, and Taeyong just shrugs, smiles back. 

“Where are _you_ gonna go?” Mark shoots back with a sly smile, because it’s worth a try, and Taeyong sets his pillow aside, picking himself up off the bed and reaching out a hand for Mark to join him. “The garage,” he answers, face breaking into a grin at Mark’s confusion. “We have a meeting, remember? They're probably waiting on us. Let’s go.”

\---

The garage is nearly as big as the house they live in, cavernous and filled wall to wall with equipment, mismatched furniture—and cars. So many cars.

They’re still not entirely sure how the company found this spot: a garage large enough to hold all the vehicles they could need, with a house large enough for all seven of them attached. Each of them came from teams where their garages served as fronts, as actual businesses to obscure the activities taking place behind the scenes, while the “dorms” where the members lived were miles away from where they worked. For SuperM, the lines blurred, pretense disappearing. Work, play, home, freedom or the illusion of it—for them, it’s all one and the same.

“How many more cars do we need?” Baekhyun is asking Lucas. The members are scattered across the garage: Ten sprawled on a couch, thumbing through the file in his hands, Baekhyun, Taemin and Mark gathered around a table covered with papers, file folders and tools, Jongin perched on a stool next to a black Audi, and Taeyong and Lucas standing at opposite ends of a purple Corvette. Lucas answers Baekhyun’s question without looking up from the open hood of the Corvette. “Just one. Mine.”

“This weekend?” Baekhyun suggests. “There’s supposed to be a race over in Cheongdam-dong.” Ten lets out a low whistle, and Lucas finally looks up, smiling brightly. “Perfect, hyung.”

“I’ll go with you,” Jongin volunteers, and he and Lucas exchange a nod before Baekhyun turns to the next item on his agenda. “The vault?”

“It’ll be here soon,” Taemin says, and Baekhyun raises his eyebrows. “‘Soon’ as in…”

“Soon, hyung,” Taemin tells him, voice firm. “We’ll have plenty of time. That’s all I can tell you.”

“I still want to know how you managed to hook us up with that,” Baekhyun comments even as he scribbles a note on the paper in front of him, and Taemin can’t help but smile. “No, you really don’t.” He catches sight of the look on Baekhyun’s face and adds, “Plausible deniability, hyung! Isn’t that what you’re always telling us?”

And Taemin’s right, because of course he is. Baekhyun had set the “no telling the others where you’re going” rule early on, as soon as they began to put their plan into motion—”I mean, you can, but it’s on you if any of us gets caught and they know where you’re going. Not that I think we’d give each other up, but,” and that _“but”_ has hung unacknowledged between them ever since. They’re all going their separate ways—all but Taemin and Jongin, because _together_ is all they’ve ever known, since before they were even on the same team.

Baekhyun glances down at the list in front of him once more, then back up at the others. “That’s everything I’ve got. You’ve all got the travel info from Kun now—thanks to Ten—so make your plans accordingly.” He pauses, then: “We’ve got less than a month til Race Wars. Less than a month to get everything in order. We don’t have room for mistakes, so let’s make sure every possibility is accounted for.” The members murmur their assent. “Unless anyone has anything else they want to discuss...I think we’re all set here.”

“I’m going to see 127 in a bit,” Mark volunteers. “See how phase one went—if there’s anything they think we should know about that they don’t want to put in writing.”

“Making the rounds, huh?” Baekhyun asks; Mark tilts his head, questioning, and Baekhyun adds, “Dreamies yesterday, 127 today?”

“ _Oh_. Yeah,” Mark says, the tips of his ears turning pink as he shrugs. “I dunno, I just thought…”

“It’s a good idea,” Baekhyun reassures him. “Keep us posted, Mark-ssi.”

\---

"Mark Lee!" Johnny says, scooping Mark into a one-armed hug that threatens to squeeze the air from his lungs. "How the hell have you been? Got your license yet?" 

"You'll be the first to know when I do," Mark promises as Johnny releases him; he catches sight of Yuta's pout and smiles. "After Yuta hyung, of course," he amends, watching as his pout turns to a grin that's all teeth. 

"Of course," Johnny agrees. "Who am I to stand in the way of true love?" 

Yuta wraps an arm around Mark's shoulders and pulls him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head before letting him go.

Mark and Yuta settle side by side on a threadbare couch, Johnny on a similarly well-worn armchair; the furniture in 127's garage is just as mismatched as that in SuperM's, though a bit worse for wear. The other members of 127 bustle in and out of the garage around them, each stopping to greet Mark before they're inevitably pulled away to work on an engine or deal with a customer who needs their attention.

127 is deep in the midst of preparing for an upcoming race, and Mark apologizes for interrupting them until Yuta waves him off. "There's always gonna be something going on. Don't worry about it." Then: "Was there something you wanted to ask us, though?" 

"Can't a guy just come see his hyungs when he feels like it?" Mark asks, only half-joking; "Awww, our maknae missed us," Johnny comments. "Didn't even come up with an ulterior motive for visiting." 

"I mean…" Mark amends, and Johnny laughs: a familiar, comforting sound. "There we go. What's up?" 

"Was there anything you noticed during the raid that we should know? Anything we should prepare ourselves for?"

Johnny and Yuta exchange a look, considering, before turning back to Mark with little more than a shrug. "It really wasn't all that different from any other job," Johnny says. "A man with that much to lose…you'd think he'd have top of the line security, but they barely gave us any trouble, compared to some of the goons we've dealt with." 

"Maybe someone with that much power thinks he's untouchable," Mark muses to no one in particular. "Maybe he has so much to lose that losing some of it isn't the end of the world." 

"Maybe," Yuta agrees. "But he still did exactly what we wanted him to do." 

The first step of the job had taken place well in advance. Mr. Kim—one of the most corrupt businessmen in Seoul, who's kept his identity almost impressively under wraps, conducting most of his business through third parties—hadn't done nearly as well keeping the locations of his cash houses hidden. 127 had raided one of the houses, gathering all the money that passed through it and setting it on fire to "send a message"—in reality, to get him to move the money from the cash houses to one location. SuperM couldn't hit ten houses at once, but a single bank? No problem.

The plan, as far as their employer, Mr. Lee, is concerned: SuperM steals the money. Mr. Lee takes the largest cut, then splits the remainder between SuperM and 127.

The plan, as far as the members are concerned: SuperM steals the money, and with it, their freedom. They run, and it's an even split between each member of SuperM, 127 and WayV. The latter two will need to hold off a while longer, keep the payday hidden and wait for the right moment, the right job to make their escape, but it's worth it: to know it can be done, to be that much closer to freedom than they've ever been.

"It was painful, watching that money burn," Yuta says. "I get why we had to do it: if we'd taken it, he would have tried to come after us. But setting it on fire ourselves…" Yuta winces.

"Soon we'll have more money than we know what to do with," Johnny reminds him in an undertone, sitting forward with an indecipherable look on his face before glancing at Mark with a sly smile. "What was the number again, Mark?" 

"Oh, come on, hyung, you remember it." 

"I just like hearing you say it. It sounds real when you say it." 

Mark rolls his eyes, but indulges him: "15.7 billion won. Nearly 14 million dollars. Each."

"What was the _exact_ number?"

Mark huffs out a laugh. Johnny's just messing with him at this point, he knows. He doesn't mind. He's missed his teasing, though he'd never admit it. "13,888,888 dollars."

"And…"

"And 88 cents."

Johnny's grinning, satisfied, as he sits back in his seat. "You know it's not gonna be that exact, right?" Mark reminds him, but Johnny just waves him off. "It's a good number, Mark Lee." 

Mark leaves not long after that, after a string of goodbyes: Taeil giving him an uncharacteristically long hug, Jungwoo nuzzling him affectionately, Johnny fixing him with a serious look, hand heavy on Mark's shoulder as he tells him to "be careful, alright?"

His words echo in Mark's mind as he bikes through the streets of Seoul: aimlessly for a while, top speed, like he can outrun his doubts. His guilt. After a while he starts to check his surroundings regularly to ensure he's not being followed; when he's sure he's not, he hesitates at a crossroads, allowing himself only a brief glance in the direction of SuperM's house.

A glance, and then he turns the other way. Bikes until he reaches a neighborhood that's more affluent than any of the members could dream of, until his thighs are burning with the exertion. He looks around himself once more—no one to be seen, save for a few children walking home from school who don't pay him the slightest bit of attention—and stops in front of a towering apartment building, disembarking from his bike and wheeling it the last few steps up to the front door.

He feels out of place every time he walks in here: the impressive lobby, the guards who don't acknowledge him as long as his keycard works (and it always does), the twinge of shame he feels as he rolls his dirty bicycle into the pristine elevator. 

He gets off at the 43rd floor, approaching the security guard posted at the end of the hall and flashing his identification; the guard checks his ID carefully, though this is far from the first time he's seen Mark, before stepping aside to let him unlock the door himself. 

Mark steps into the apartment and is met with chaos.

It never gets any less busy, he thinks, no matter the time of the month, week, day. There are always people moving in and out of rooms, typing furiously at the many computers set up along the walls, getting refills of coffee and taking snack and smoke and bathroom breaks. It's a different kind of chaos than he's used to, now, a different kind of busy than the garage: it feels somehow both more and less controlled, like the tension between the officers and the detectives could snap at any second. 

It's a haven for undercover officers, but Mark wonders for how long. It was meant to be a single operation, but the number of street racing teams necessitated more and more officers being brought in, more teams overlapping, each of them getting deeper and deeper into this world they were assigned to bring down.

He can't be the only one struggling, he thinks.

He doesn't dare voice it. 

"Back so soon, Officer Lee?"

Mark turns to see Yixing and Jackson watching him from across the room; Yixing gestures him over.

"Just wanted to know if there were any changes to the plan," Mark asks, ignoring the way Jackson scoffs, "Since last night?"

"Not unless you have any new information," Yixing says, more kindly, though the gaze he fixes on Mark is pointed. Mark thinks about the information Ten collected from Yangyang, about Baekhyun's attempts to get in contact with Bangtan. "No," he lies. "I just had an afternoon to myself, and those are rare, so I figured I'd…" he trails off, gesturing vaguely at his surroundings, and Yixing watches him for a long moment before he motions toward the apartment's extensive balcony. "Let's step outside, yeah?"

Jackson looks taken aback. "Sir, I…"

Yixing glances back at him. "We'll get back to our discussion later, Wang." His tone brooks no argument, and Jackson knows better than to do anything but nod and step aside.

Yixing and Mark step out onto the balcony; the few officers out there smoking quickly stub out their cigarettes and step back inside, saluting on their way in. Yixing acknowledges each of them until he and Mark are alone, the silence stretching heavily between them.

"Are you going native on me, Mark?" Yixing finally asks, more direct than Mark anticipated he would be. He stumbles over his response, the words clumsy on his tongue. "No," he says, and it sounds unconvincing even to his own ears. "I just want to make sure we're taking down the right people. Why are we focusing on the team members when we know they’re just pawns in a bigger picture?”

Mr. Kim is more of a threat than any of the racers; Mr. Lee as well, both of them hiding behind the illusion of legitimacy. Mr. Lee in particular, employing and financing street racing teams filled with members who think they’re going to get to do what they love (drive, compete, legally), before being roped into increasingly dangerous situations. So many of them are vulnerable, with little else to fall back on, few other people in their lives to help them get out; all the money is in the jobs they pull for their employer, and they’re often in too deep before they realize it.

Mark doesn’t need to tell Yixing this. He knows better than most. He came from the same world: the same team as Baekhyun and Jongin, in fact, before EXO fractured, the members scattered across the country. Yixing knows they’re not bad people, which makes it all the more frustrating when:

“We have our orders,” Yixing tells him, not for the first time, sounding weary. “And the only team they’re interested in right now is SuperM. We should be focusing on the employers actually in control, I know, but the scale of the crimes the members have committed...the people at the top can’t keep turning a blind eye.”

“Is that true, though, sir? That they only want SuperM? You’ve got this task force,” he gestures toward the safe house as he speaks, “All these cops, assigned to all these different teams...you’re telling me none of the other groups have done anything to warrant this treatment?” _Bangtan,_ he thinks, reflecting on their notoriety, but he keeps his mouth shut: he doesn’t dare draw attention to them, not now.

“What are you asking?” Yixing asks, knowing full well.

“Once we take down SuperM, is that the end of it? Or will we keep going?”

“You’re worried about your former members, aren’t you?” Yixing isn’t trying to be cruel. He’s straightforward, and somehow that’s almost worse. “I can’t make any guarantees,” he continues without waiting for a response. “If they give us reason to, we will. Right now, our orders are only regarding SuperM, but we’re well aware they aren’t the only team under Mr. Lee.”

“Then _why_ aren’t we focusing on him? The person at the top, the one with the actual power?” They’re talking in circles, Mark’s frustration bleeding into his tone.

“Because he’s the one with the resources to defend himself,” and there it is, laid out clear as day. “But if we can get the people that worked for him to turn on him, to give us evidence, to testify, we have a better chance of bringing him down for good—hopefully without bringing down everyone who’s been roped into working for him, too.”

(Mark thinks back to the first time they had this conversation, his first introduction to Detective Zhang Yixing, head of the task force assigned to the newly-formed SuperM. “Pardon my asking, sir, but why didn’t you do that?” Mark had asked. “Testify against him?”

“I did,” Yixing responded. “That’s how I ended up here. But it was my word against his. It wasn’t enough. We need more than that this time.”)

“I’m sorry,” Yixing says, finally taking on a gentler tone as he rests a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “We both know it’s not the ideal way to do this. If I were the one calling the shots…” He shakes his head, trails off, looking like he has more he wants to say. Mark always wonders if he wants to ask after Baekhyun and Jongin, if he wonders how they’re doing.

He never does.

Yixing’s hand slips from Mark’s shoulder as Mark gazes out at the skyline, unseeing. He could probably see the SuperM house from here, he thinks distantly. Maybe the 127 and WayV garages, dorms. He doesn't look. 

He turns away from the view as the door slides open: it's Yibo, a question for Yixing on his lips, though he stops short as he spots Mark. "Oh. Hey, Lee."

Mark greets him with the slightest of bows before turning back to Yixing. "Am I free to go, sir?"

“Do I have anything I need to worry about, Officer Lee?” The _from you_ hangs unspoken in the air between them.

“No, sir.” Mark’s tone is as resolute as he can manage. “Just wanted to clarify where we stand.”

Yixing looks at him for another long moment before he says, “You’re free to go. Remember your assignment, officer.” Mark nods, salutes, brushing past Yibo on his way out the door. 

He ignores the eyes on his back as leaves, fingers drumming impatiently against the handlebars of his bike as he waits for the elevator to arrive.

\---

Mark Lee has been playing both sides of the fence for years. 

He'd suggested it himself as a trainee in the police academy—he'd graduated high school early and was too eager to prove himself, too desperate to stand out. (Ironic, he thinks now.) "Let me go undercover. Play the long game. If I'm in that world long enough, no one will suspect me," and somehow, his superiors had agreed. 

He'd joined Mr. Lee's company at the same time he finished his training, let himself be shuffled around teams and task forces, made himself indispensable. It didn't matter that he couldn't drive. He was Mark Lee, and he was good at computers, and everybody liked him. 

Except himself, most of the time.

Caught between two worlds, two versions of himself for so long, it's impossible for him not to wonder which Mark Lee he actually wants to be. Torn between the vows he's made and the people he now, against his best efforts, considers family, it's come down to this: he has less than a month to make his choice. 

Pedaling faster, picking up speed, clothes rippling in the wind, he bikes like he can outpace the questions weighing on him. He understands why the members race, he thinks, even if he doesn't truly know how it feels: it's an escape. A reprieve. The sense that, for even just a moment, nothing else matters. "For those ten seconds or less, I'm free," Ten had told him once. 

Mark tries to remember what freedom feels like.

He bikes faster.

\---

There’s a celebration in full swing when Mark gets back to the house—dusk has fallen and the ground is thumping with the bass of the music blaring from the garage.

Mark takes a moment to catch his breath, to compose himself before he joins the others; they greet him with an inordinate level of enthusiasm, Lucas pressing a bottle into his hand before he’s barely past the threshold. “There you are, Mark! Come on, we’re celebrating!”

“What are we celebrating?” Mark asks, practically shouting to be heard over the music.

“Baekhyun hyung talked to Bangtan’s leader. They’re gonna help us!”

“ _What?_ ” Mark asks, waving a hand to stop Lucas when he starts to repeat himself. “No, I got it, I just…” he glances around. “Where is hyung?”

“Kitchen,” Lucas says, jerking his chin toward the house. Mark raises his bottle in a semblance of _cheers_ and goes to join Baekhyun.

He’s alone in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator like it holds all the answers; he sighs deeply and shuts it when he catches sight of Mark.

“What did they want in return?” Mark asks. “A cut?”

Baekhyun shakes his head. “A blank check. A favor.”

Mark blanches. “That’s—”

“Potentially a terrible idea? I know,” Baekhyun says. “But they’re our best shot.”

Bangtan: SuperM’s biggest rivals. The only group who could pull off jobs as cleanly, the only team that’s ever given them a real run for their money in the races. Their biggest rivals—and thus, the last people Mr. Lee would expect to be helping them. “So 127 and WayV will keep the cops off our backs—”

“—and Bangtan will take care of Mr. Lee’s men,” Baekhyun finishes for him. “They’ll buy us the time we need to escape, and they’ll keep the suspicion off the others. It’s as good a solution as we could have hoped for.” He sounds like he’s not entirely sure he believes it himself.

“What do you think they’re gonna want?” Mark wonders aloud.

“Help getting out themselves, down the line, maybe?” Baekhyun suggests with a shrug. “No idea, and there’s no point in speculating.” He picks up his Corona from the counter and taps it against Mark’s. “Cheers. Tonight’s for celebrating, Mark Lee. Drink up.”

\---

There’s nothing quite like it, Jongin thinks, the feeling of pulling up to a race. It’s like there’s something in the air, something that brings out the best and worst in everyone there—the best driving, the worst behavior. The trash talk (sometimes with an edge of fondness, sometimes actual contempt), the outrageous outfits, the team dynamics, the competition—and, of course, the cars.

Jongin loves cars. _Loves_ cars, legitimately loves driving, and with him behind the wheel, it’s nearly an art form. He’s studied the way others drive, stripped cars down to their core to figure out how they work and put them back together, modified them until they drove precisely the way he wanted them to. Street races are like a feast of potential, and Jongin never tires of it: seeing who’s got something shiny and new to show off, who’s made modifications to a vehicle they’ve had for years, who’s still got a heavy foot or a light touch or is too quick to hit the NOS. Seeing which car he’s going to take off whose hands on any given night.

Alas, tonight isn’t about him. They’re here for Lucas, and as they pull up in Jongin’s Challenger, Lucas’s eyes are already shining, looking at all the possibilities laid out before them. Before he brings the car to a stop, Jongin reminds him of the orders Baekhyun had given them before they left: “We take from Bangtan and Bangtan only. You can choose whichever car you want, but it has to be one of theirs.”

“But hyung,” Lucas complains, voice dangerously close to a whine, “Look at that Ducati!” He gestures out the front window at the motorbike in question, and Jongin can’t help but look. It _is_ nice, he has to admit, but—”That’s just impractical,” he says, deadpan, as he cuts the engine, and Lucas laughs.

They step out of the Challenger in unison and are met with a wall of sound: competing stereos, groups mingling to admire one another’s vehicles, chatting loudly over the music. People surround the Challenger quickly, eager to see what SuperM’s brought with them this time, but one in particular is more interested in the drivers than the car itself. “Lucas hyung!” Haechan shouts, greeting him with an enthusiastic hug. “We didn’t know you guys were gonna be here tonight.”

The rest of Dream comes trailing after him, greeting Lucas just as exuberantly. They’re more formal when it comes to Jongin, bowing politely instead, before turning back to Lucas. “Mark didn’t mention it when you saw him?” Lucas asks, surprised, before he recalls, “Oh, wait. I guess we didn’t make the call ’til after that.”

“Mark hyung?” Haechan scoffs. “We haven’t seen him for at least a month. I keep telling him to come check out this awesome mod we made, but he says he’s too busy…” As he keeps talking, Lucas and Jongin exchange a look, brows furrowed. _Why would Mark lie?_ Jongin makes a mental note to mention it to Baekhyun when they get back.

Right now, they have other priorities—priorities which are currently pulling up to the race. Each vehicle is more impressive than the last, and everyone knows who they are before they’ve even stepped out of their cars. Four of them have doubled up—Taehyung riding with Jimin, Namjoon with Hoseok—but that still leaves five cars for Lucas to choose from, and Jongin knows even before looking at him which one he wants. He glances over to confirm and sure enough, Lucas’s gaze is focused solely on the matte black Aston Martin Vanquish as it rolls to a stop across the way.

Renjun follows Lucas’s line of sight, letting out a low whistle when he sees where he’s looking. “Racing Bangtan tonight, huh?”

“For that car...I think I have to,” Lucas says; he’s so eager that Renjun can’t help but laugh. “Good luck, hyung.”

Leaving Dream behind, Jongin and Lucas start to make their way toward Bangtan, stopping regularly to catch up with someone they haven’t seen in a while (Jongin exchanging a few words with Jennie, Lucas scooping Yuqi into a bear hug) or admire an exceptional car.

One in particular catches Jongin’s attention—a royal purple Lamborghini parked beside a team he vaguely recalls seeing at a few previous races. One of Mr. Park’s teams, he thinks. Two of the members are conversing in Australian-accented English, but they pause as Jongin steps up to take a look at the Lambo. “This yours?” Jongin asks, directing the question at the one he thinks is the leader, but the other speaks up instead, his voice unexpectedly deep. “Mine, sunbaenim.”

“You can call me hyung,” Jongin says; the formality always strikes him as unnecessary in a setting like this. “Did you do all this work yourself?”

The man—Felix, he quickly introduces himself as—nods, indicating the modifications he’s made, the bodywork he’s done, offering rapid-fire explanations that Jongin follows with no trouble. “Channie hyung and Minho hyung helped,” he adds at the end of his spiel, “But most of it was me.”

“It can be hard to make DIY bodywork look this clean,” Jongin says, impressed. “She’s a beauty.”

“If you ever want to race, hyung…” Felix says, hopeful, and Jongin grins, shooting him down gently. “My car’s spoken for tonight,” he explains, gesturing toward Lucas, and Felix nods his understanding. “Maybe next time,” he says, undeterred; Jongin wants to say _yes_ , but he knows, given their timeline—there won’t be a next time. He pats the hood of the car noncommittally and bids Felix and Chan goodbye, finally moving on to the reason they’ve come.

The Bangtan members are hovering near their cars, talking amongst themselves, though they pause each time someone approaches to check out their vehicles, to ask them questions. Namjoon looks up as Jongin and Lucas draw near. “Kim Jongin. Wong Yukhei,” he says, acknowledging both of them with a slight bow; they each respond in kind. “What brings you to Cheongdam-dong tonight?”

“Same thing as you, I imagine. Looking for our next car,” Jongin says. “Well, one car in particular, really.” He lets his gaze slip deliberately past Namjoon to the Aston Martin, and Namjoon’s answering grin is all teeth. “Pink slips, hmm? What have you got on offer?”

Jongin gestures back the way they came, indicating the Challenger, and hears Namjoon suck in a quick breath. “Never been able to get my hands on one of those,” he says under his breath, and Jongin silently thanks Baekhyun for his advice on which car to take. (“Taehyung said there were some American models they’ve never been able to find. The Challenger, maybe? Make it look real, like something they’d actually be willing to race for?”) “Now’s your chance,” Jongin says. “What do you say?”

Namjoon hesitates, as though weighing his options, for long enough that Jongin starts to fear he’s no longer acting—and then he holds out a hand to secure the deal. “Let’s do this. Will you be racing?”

“He will,” Jongin says, nodding toward Lucas. “How about you? I know you won’t be racing, so…”

“ _He_ will,” Namjoon says, glancing over his shoulder; Jungkook, who’s clearly been eavesdropping, turns away from his conversation with Seokjin and Yoongi to offer them a wave, which Lucas returns.

They’re interrupted moments later when Jackson approaches with Yugyeom in tow. “Kim Namjoon, what the hell are you doing here?” he asks good-naturedly, and Namjoon resists the urge to roll his eyes—Jackson makes the same comment every time their paths cross. “You can’t even drive!”

“Neither can Mark Lee,” Lucas mutters under his breath, and Jongin has to stifle a laugh. Jackson spares them a brief glance before turning his attention back to Namjoon, whose smile now looks like a challenge. “Are we talking or are we racing?” Namjoon asks.

“Well, I know _you’re_ not racing,” Jackson says, “But it looks like your team is ready.” He turns to face the crowd, all the groups gathered, and Yugyeom hands him a bullhorn to help his voice cut through the chaos. “Who’s in?” Jackson yells, and the roar that goes up from the crowd in response is thunderous. “Let’s race!”

Jungkook stops Lucas before he makes his way back to the Challenger, reaching out to shake his hand with an unreadable smile. “May the best man win.”

\---

A few hours later, the Challenger pulls into the garage. Taemin, Taeyong and Ten look up, waiting—

—and a moment later, the Aston Martin pulls in as well, with Lucas behind the wheel.

“Nicely _done,_ ” Taeyong says as Lucas climbs out, the three of them gathering around to admire the new addition. “He raced well,” Jongin says, shutting the door of the Challenger and coming to join them. “Very well, actually. He almost might have won for real.”

Lucas fixes him with a look. “What’s that supposed to mean, hyung?”

Jongin looks at him in disbelief. “You were never gonna lose that race,” he says. “The whole point was for Bangtan to lose. To make it look like they have even more reason to hate us…”

“...so there’s no way anyone would suspect them of helping us,” Lucas finishes for him, his face falling as he realizes. Jongin claps him on the shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint. You really did race well, though. If Jungkook let off the throttle at the finish line to let you win, I couldn’t tell. And I can almost always tell.”

“But I’m never gonna know if I actually won,” Lucas murmurs, and Ten and Taeyong both move at the same moment to wrap their arms around Lucas, trapping him between them in an attempt to reassure him. Ten gestures toward the prize. “Look at this! Worth it, either way,” he says, but Lucas looks less than sure.

\---

Jungkook’s sprawled in the back of Jimin’s Porsche 911 Turbo on their way home that night, staring up at the stars as Jimin drives and Taehyung fiddles with the radio. “I think he might have beat me for real,” Jungkook muses aloud, and Taehyung glances back at him. “What was that?”

“Lucas,” Jungkook says, sitting up so they can hear him over the wind and the music. “I think he actually might have won fair and square. I meant to pull back, but I didn’t want to do it too soon and make it obvious, and we were basically neck and neck, so I…” he trails off, shrugging. “I dunno.”

He lays back down, eyes on the sky once more. “Damn,” Taehyung says. “Good for him,” Jimin says, and Jungkook kicks the back of his seat. “Hey!”

Taehyung and Jimin dissolve into laughter and Jungkook grins in spite of himself, watching as the stars and city lights pass by in a blur.

\---

The next few weeks are a whirlwind of preparation, making test runs and adjustments and plans—so many plans. Jongin and Lucas are in charge of most of the physical work on the cars, Taemin and Mark on the technical side of things, while Taeyong and Ten help out wherever they’re needed, skilled enough to lend an extra pair of hands to fix a glitching security camera or a broken timing chain. Baekhyun is there to keep them on track and step in to help when needed—he’d been thrust into his role as a leader, but he’s navigated it well.

That’s not to say everything goes smoothly. The pressure is mounting, arguments growing more frequent, and every mistake reminds them how tenuous the situation is—how close they are to freedom but also to failure.

Their attempts at relief from the constant stress aren’t always successful, either. Taemin and Jongin (and Ten) are generally good about keeping their physical relationship behind closed doors, but with tensions running high and the clock running out, they’ve grown more careless, more desperate. It’s all well and good until Baekhyun walks in on them in the garage, Taemin sprawled across the hood of the Corvette as Ten goes down on him, Jongin’s hands in Ten’s hair, guiding him. 

“Ah, f—” Baekhyun curses, startling them; they break apart immediately with a noise Baekhyun would rather forget, and he turns away as they scramble to set their clothes to rights, making themselves presentable again. He turns back only when the rustling has ceased and Taemin is clearing his throat, speaking up sheepishly: “Sorry, hyung.”

It’s late, and Baekhyun is sure they thought they were the only ones awake, but: “You guys know I don’t care what you do,” he tells them, resolutely not letting his gaze drift down to Ten’s red, red mouth, “But can you just...not do it in here? We all work on these cars, guys, come on.” They murmur their assent, knowing full well he’s right, and Baekhyun shakes his head helplessly. As long as this is the only thing they’re being careless about…

Still, he can’t help but add, “Plus, what if someone else had walked in here? _Mark?_ You probably would’ve traumatized the poor kid.”

“He’s not as innocent as you think he is, hyung,” Jongin says and Ten laughs, missing the look that Baekhyun and Jongin exchange.

Jongin and Lucas had pulled Baekhyun aside after returning from the race, conveying what Haechan had told them, and Baekhyun’s response had been the same as theirs: “Why would Mark lie?” He’d thought about it for a few days, wondering if he should confront Mark directly; he’d even followed Mark a few times when he left the house, but Mark had lost him each time, able to turn down narrow streets and alleys and speed through lights on his bike while Baekhyun looked for another way around. _He rides like the wind_ , Baekhyun had thought as he watched Mark disappear around a corner, _like he’s already running from something._ Then again, he supposes, it’s the closest Mark can get to racing, and certainly none of them can fault him for that.

He does end up talking to him a few days later, the two of them alone in the garage, ostensibly working on the performance chip for the Maserati. Mark is typing away, lines of code that are foreign to Baekhyun, when Baekhyun decides to be up front about it. “Mark?”

“Hmm?” He keeps typing.

“When you went to visit Dream the other day…” and now Mark falters, hesitating for only a moment before picking back up again, his face giving nothing away. “Yeah?”

“Where were you actually?” Baekhyun asks, and finally Mark stops typing and turns to face him. “How’d you know I wasn’t there?”

“Well, you just told me,” Baekhyun says, and Mark rolls his eyes. “Come on, hyung. You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t already know.”

Baekhyun doesn’t see what harm there is in telling him the truth. “Haechan mentioned it at the race last weekend. Said he hadn’t seen you in at least a month,” and Mark curses himself inwardly (and Donghyuck, a little, out of habit more than actual resentment) for coming up with a lie so easily disproved. “So...where were you?” 

“I…” It’s not like Mark hasn’t been prepared for this possibility for years—not to mention anticipating this conversation since Baekhyun started following him earlier this week. He keeps it simple. “I just went for a ride to clear my head. To think. I do that a lot, actually,” and that’s not untrue. (He, of all people, knows that the most effective lies are as close to the truth as possible.) “I...I was worried if I told you guys, you would think I was having doubts about the plan. Second thoughts. So I made something up.” He lets out a self-conscious laugh, as though just now realizing how ridiculous he sounds upon saying it aloud, and Baekhyun makes a small noise of disbelief. Mark raises his eyebrows, meeting his gaze cautiously.

“Do you think we don’t have doubts, Mark?” Baekhyun asks him; it’s rhetorical, but it’s sincere. “Maybe I shouldn’t say this, since I’m our leader,” he spits the word out like it tastes bad on his tongue, “But I’ve had second thoughts every day since we started putting this plan into motion. I’m not sure we _can_ pull this off, and if any of us—any of you guys—gets hurt, or worse, I…” He trails off, shaking his head. He doesn’t have an end to that sentence. He won’t let himself—won’t let it become a possibility. (It _is_ a possibility, and that’s the reality he can’t escape.) He forces himself to meet Mark’s eyes. “All I’m saying is: you don’t need to hide that. I’d be more concerned if you _weren’t_ having doubts.” He laughs a bit, but it’s a helpless sound. “You do what you need to do to stay sane, Mark Lee. Just don’t lie to us anymore, yeah?”

Mark nods, his skin crawling with guilt, as they turn back to the task at hand.

“I think Baekhyun hyung's starting to get suspicious,” he tells Yixing the next time he checks in. “I need to be careful.” He doesn’t go complete radio silence, but close, throwing himself into the work that needs to be done for the job instead. There’s plenty to go around, and he finds himself learning more about the cars themselves, getting his hands dirty more often than he has in the past. He doesn’t make any attempts at sabotage—they would undoubtedly be discovered, after all, with how obsessively Jongin and Lucas have been checking the vehicles—not to mention that no matter which side of the fence Mark is playing, the plan is contingent on SuperM pulling off the job at hand.

He does plant trackers on two of the cars—the two that will have the money in tow—minuscule devices, nearly indistinguishable from the hardware that surrounds them. He's in the midst of one of these, under the guise of checking the box sections of one of the Chargers, when his phone rings. “Can you get that?” he calls out to Ten, struggling a bit with the final step of the task at hand. “I asked Taemin to call me with some specs, it’s probably him, I’ll be done in a sec—”

Ten obliges, setting his own phone aside and reaching for Mark’s. “Hello?”

“Hey, man, I—”

It’s not Taemin. Ten curses himself for not double checking the caller ID before picking up—if he’d known, he could have at least prepared himself, but—

The voice on the other end pauses. “Hang on. Ten?”

Ten shuts his eyes, allowing himself only a moment of hesitation before responding, “...hyung?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” the voice says. “It’s—” as if Ten doesn’t already know, hasn’t known from the second he picked up the phone, “—Johnny. How are you, man? How’ve you been?” Johnny pauses, but only for a moment, not enough time for Ten to answer, before he adds, “And why do you have Mark’s phone?”

Mark, who’s pushed himself out from under the car and cleaned his hands and is now waiting for Ten to hand him the phone, looking expectant. “Who is it?” he mouths; “Johnny hyung,” Ten mouths back, and Mark’s eyes go wide. “He was just working on one of the cars—he’s free now,” Ten tells Johnny. “I’ll give you to him. Talk to you later, hyung!” He hands the phone over before he can hear Johnny’s response, crossing the garage to take a look at the Supra while Mark and Johnny talk.

Later that night, Ten is sprawled across his bed, sketching aimlessly, when his phone _dings_ —once, twice. 

It’s Johnny.

_Hey_

_Good to talk to you earlier. Even if it was for like two seconds_

Ten stares at his phone. It’s not like they haven’t talked, when their paths have crossed—the occasions have just been few and far between, the conversations always surface level, never any room for anything else. They’d been practically inseparable once upon a time, best friends long before they became anything more, and going from that kind of closeness to barely acquaintances hurt more than if they’d had reason to hate each other, Ten thinks. Less messy, maybe, but it had left them in a different sort of limbo altogether.

(They’d trained together, two foreigners in a company, country where they knew no one else. Grown close, fallen in love—and then were told they’d be placed on different teams. Rivals, even within the same company—it was a complication they hadn’t foreseen, and they were too powerless then to find a way around it.

Ten still remembers the taste of Johnny’s mouth as he kissed him goodbye.)

_You too_ , he texts back.

_Can I call you?_ the response comes through a few moments later, and once again Ten is taken aback—but he can’t find a reason to say no. _Sure._

“Hey,” Ten says when he picks up; “Hey yourself,” Johnny responds, tone just on the verge of teasing. On brand. “You never answered my question earlier. How’ve you been?”

The conversation is easy, uncomplicated, like few things are these days: two friends catching up after too much time spent apart. Ten finds himself laughing, grinning—feeling like a fucking teenager again, young and dumb and sickeningly in love. They keep the conversation light—no discussion of _us_ or what’s to come, merely what they’ve missed and old jokes they thought they’d forgotten weaving their way through every exchange—but before they hang up, Ten can’t help but ask. “Why’d you call?”

“You said I could,” Johnny says, and he can _hear_ Ten roll his eyes before he’s even said a word in response. Johnny smiles to himself, voice softening. “I missed you,” he says, simply; that’s allowed, he thinks.

(Maybe it is that simple. Ten doesn’t think it is. The plan has them all on edge, wondering if the next time they talk to each other will be the last. He doesn’t dare say any of this aloud.) “I missed you too.”

They hang up a few minutes later, both of them suddenly acutely aware of how empty their beds feel. “Fuck,” Johnny murmurs, slumping back on his sheets; “Fuck,” Ten echoes, miles away, burying his face in a pillow.

(Somehow, he still can’t stop smiling.)

Meanwhile, in the garage, Taeyong and Taemin are taking a break.

Taemin had been working on the Corvette when Taeyong arrived—back from an intel gathering assignment that had turned into a honeypot mission. Taemin gets it: sometimes, seduction is the most effective method. 

“He told me everything we needed to know.” Taeyong had looked less than thrilled, despite his success. “The vault is on the lowest level—the ‘most secure,’” he’d said, raising his fingers in air quotes; they’d exchanged a dubious look and Taemin had offered him a beer, hoping to calm his nerves.

Now, Taeyong’s sprawled across the couch, picking at the label on his Corona, while Taemin spins back and forth on a stool beside the Corvette. Neither of them is speaking, though there’s music playing softly: the silence between them isn’t quite comfortable, but it’s not _un_ comfortable, either. “Hyung?” Taeyong says finally, and Taemin stops spinning, glancing over at him. “Hmm?”

“How’d you and Jongin hyung make it work? Being on different teams, I mean, but also...everything else,” Taeyong asks, and Taemin’s quiet for a long moment as he considers the question. He’s not surprised by the timing of it: honeypot missions are just part of the job, but in a way, they always feel like cheating.

“It wasn’t easy, at first,” he starts. “Things actually used to be even more controlled than they are now. We couldn’t even have cell phones.” Taeyong is nodding; he’s heard this before. “There was a lot of sneaking out to see each other.” Taemin smiles to himself, remembering 2 a.m. walks along the Han River, stolen kisses in the back of whichever car they’d “borrowed” for the night. “We just had to make time to see each other when we could, basically. It helped that Shinee started racing first, so by the time EXO joined the circuit, I at least had some more freedom. And…” here he hesitates, though he’s not sure why—it’s not like Taeyong doesn’t already know. “We weren’t exclusive. That doesn’t work for everyone, obviously, but...we trusted each other. Always knew it came down to the two of us, you know? We’re endgame for each other—ride or die. We’ve always known that.”

Taeyong’s nodding slowly again, taking all of this in, when Taemin decides to ask him outright. “What’s your plan with Doyoung, Taeyongie?” He’s thinking back to Baekhyun’s concern, his request that they “keep an eye” on him—he’d tried for subtlety, but with their schedule, time is running out too quickly to keep beating around the bush.

“What are you asking, hyung?” Taeyong’s eyes are sharp, glittering, and Taemin thinks this is the closest he’s ever seen Taeyong to the way he gets when he’s on the track or the street. They like to joke that Taeyong becomes a different person when he races—dangerous, a little bit wild—but it’s rare that it bleeds into his everyday persona. He clearly doesn’t like that the conversation has turned on him, though he must have seen it coming when he first asked the question.

“I just want to make sure you know what needs to be done. What _can’t_ be done,” Taemin says, and it’s like all the fight goes out of Taeyong at once. 

“Don’t worry, hyung. We’re not going to do anything stupid.” Taemin must look unconvinced, because Taeyong continues, “I was their leader, yeah? I’m not going to do anything that puts the rest of them in danger. Doyoungie would kill me,” he adds under his breath, and Taemin chuckles. He doesn’t know Doyoung well, but he’s always thought he had a good head on his shoulders. “If anything, he’s given me more incentive to see this through,” Taeyong says. “To get out, get our distance so we can help the others do the same.”

Taemin nods his understanding, tilting his bottle in Taeyong’s direction. “Cheers to that.” He’s rooting for the two of them: he only hopes Taeyong takes his words about trust to heart.

“I don’t think we have anything to worry about from Taeyong, hyung,” Taemin tells Baekhyun the next day, his voice quiet, the two of them sequestered away in a corner of the garage. Taemin recounts their conversation from the night before; Baekhyun nods and tells Taemin, “Good work,” watching him go before he slumps back in his seat, looking troubled. If Taemin believes Taeyong, Baekhyun does too—but he’s still not sure he trusts Mark’s story, and hates that he still has doubts.

He thinks back to the conversation he’d had with Namjoon, the night Bangtan agreed to help them. “Do you really think you can do it?” Namjoon had asked, but before Baekhyun could scoff, “We wouldn’t be asking if we didn’t,” Namjoon had amended his question to, “Do you trust your team?” and that, well—that had tripped him up.

SuperM has accomplished a lot in an impressively short amount of time: pulled off jobs others said couldn’t be done, won races by a landslide. That short amount of time, though, meant less history, fewer chances to form the unbreakable bonds they’d shared with their former teams. “Of course,” he’d told Namjoon, telling himself it wasn’t really a lie—he did trust his team to be the best, to pull off the tasks given to them, even if he might question where their loyalties ultimately lay. (He could ask himself the same question, and there’s a reason he hasn’t.) He’s not sure Namjoon had believed him, but he’d agreed nonetheless, so Baekhyun hadn’t looked at it too closely.

Until now. He finds himself thinking, overthinking, until he finally decides—they've earned a break. The team needs it as much as he does, though they're surprisingly resistant to the idea at first. "We're taking the night off," he tells them firmly, all seven of them gathered together in the garage. 

"But, hyung, we've got to—" 

"It's not a request," Baekhyun cuts in, and Taeyong looks taken aback until Baekhyun softens. "We all need this. I know there's a lot to be done, but if we keep going like this, we're gonna make mistakes. And," he adds, almost as an afterthought, "It's my birthday." 

"Hyung, why didn't you start with that?" Jongin asks; "Yah! You of all people should know when it is by now," and Jongin at least has the grace to look chastised.

"What's the plan, hyung?" Ten asks, and Baekhyun's answering grin says _I'm glad you asked_. "We're going out...and I've invited some friends along."

\---

It's one of the most exclusive clubs in Seoul, and tonight, it's all theirs. Countless racing teams packed on the dance floor together, company divisions and rivalries forgotten for a single night of debauchery. Baekhyun wouldn't have it any other way. "Let's make the last one together count, yeah?" he'd said, raising his glass in a toast with the ones who _knew_. 

SuperM, 127, WayV and Dream all have VIP sections to themselves, but they're constantly on the move, bouncing between the dance floor, the bar, and each other's laps. Johnny ends up in the DJ booth for a few memorable numbers, sending the whole room into an uproar; Taemin, Hoshi, Momo and Shownu find themselves engaged in an impromptu dance battle in the middle of the dance floor; Chenle impulsively announces that the Dreamies are buying a round for everyone, then exchanges a panicked look with Renjun before shrugging and shouting, "Shots!"

Jongin catches sight of Felix ("Purple Lambo," his memory supplies helpfully) dancing with Chenle minutes later and raises a glass in their direction when Felix spots him; a few feet away, Ten is dancing with Lisa, looking more carefree than he has in ages.

Ten looks up, searching until he spots the WayV booth, and sure enough—there's Yangyang, talking intently with Kun and Xiaojun. When he finally glances in Ten's direction, Ten gestures for him to join them; Yangyang grins but shakes his head. "Come on, baby!" Ten shouts, hears Lisa laugh beside him; Yangyang can't hear him, but Ten can tell from the way he rolls his eyes that he's understood. He continues to refuse until Ten gives up with a pout and a wave of defeat, turning back to Lisa and losing himself in the music once again.

Kun rests a hand on the back of Yangyang's head once Ten has turned away, and is both surprised and pleased when Yangyang doesn't shrug him off. 

(Kun's spent enough time as their leader to understand. Ten and Yangyang both love each other, that's not a question—but in different ways, needing different things from one another, and they both know it. They never had the time, the chance to try to make it anything more, to get on the same page, and Yangyang's keeping his distance out of a sense of self-preservation, Kun knows. It's already going to hurt him plenty when Ten leaves—he doesn't need to make it any worse for himself.)

Yangyang's already turned back to their conversation with Xiaojun, looking at him in disbelief. "Wait, _what?_ "

"I said, do you think Lucas is in love with Hendery?"

Kun's hand slips down to Yangyang's shoulders. He's about to cut Xiaojun off when Yangyang says, "Actually…"

It's Kun's turn to stare in disbelief as Yangyang continues, "Like, it sounds ridiculous, because Xuxi is so straight—"

" _So_ straight," Xiaojun agrees.

"—but now that you say that…"

They're both looking toward the bar, brows raised; Kun follows suit, tilting his head when he spots the pair in question. "...huh."

He'd nearly missed them among all the people mingling near the bar—because, he realizes, they look so much like a couple. Hendery has a hand on Lucas's hip as he leans in close to hear what he’s saying; Lucas laughs uproariously at Hendery's response, one hand on his arm, crowding even closer into his space. They look like they’ve forgotten everyone around them, like they’re the only two in the world, and Kun finally has to look away. “I feel like I’m intruding,” he mutters, and Xiaojun and Yangyang nod their agreement, reaching for their drinks in lieu of discussing the matter further.

Over in the 127 booth, Mark Lee has been accosted.

Jaehyun and Jaemin, both drunk and overly affectionate, have draped themselves over him, pinning him in place as though worried he’s going to up and leave. (It wouldn’t be the first time, Mark thinks, guilting himself into staying put.) “I’ve missed you,” Jaemin says; “I’m _gonna_ miss you,” Jaehyun murmurs, and Mark freezes as Jaemin fixes Jaehyun with a questioning look. “Is hyung going somewhere?”

Jaehyun is saved from answering when Taeil yells, “Winwin!”, announcing the arrival of another visitor they haven’t seen in ages. (Not for the first time, Mark Lee finds himself thanking the heavens for Dong Sicheng.) He only hopes Jaemin is drunk enough that he won’t remember Jaehyun’s comment in the morning.

Jisung trails into the booth a few minutes after Winwin, two strangers in tow. “Mark hyung!” he exclaims, sounding delighted to see him. “Have you met our new friends yet?” Mark shakes his head and attempts to bow as best he can with Jaehyun and Jaemin still practically in his lap as Jisung introduces “Shotaro hyung and Sungchan hyung.” “Still the maknae, huh?” Mark asks; “Always,” Jisung responds, his smile somewhere between sweet and cocky.

Yuta pulls Shotaro aside a few moments later, the two of them conversing in rapid Japanese; Jaehyun and Jaemin are speaking more to each other than to Mark at this point, and Mark finds himself looking out over the club, the countless familiar faces below—

—and with a jolt, he spots one looking back. Jackson Wang, leaning languidly against the bar, the barest hint of a smirk crossing his face before he turns his back to Mark, gesturing for the bartender’s attention.

Mark is on his feet before he can think better of it, making his excuses to Jaehyun and Jaemin. “You know they’ll bring you drinks, right?” Jaehyun says, but Mark is already halfway gone; “I miss you already,” Jaemin calls, sprawling in the spot Mark has left behind.

Mark fights his way across the dance floor to the bar, not looking at Jackson as he slots himself in beside him and mutters, “What are you doing here?”

“Pretty much everyone was invited. My whole team is here,” Jackson says, staring out at the dance floor and taking a sip of his drink. “Plus, I mean...it’s a party. Where else would I be?”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Just stay out of my way, alright?”

“Can I get you anything?”

Mark is taken aback—he hadn’t noticed the bartender’s approach. “Yeah, uh, I’ll take a Jack and coke,” he says without thinking, wincing as she nods and steps away. “Sweet tooth, huh?” Jackson comments. “And I could say the same for you. Let’s each stick to our own territory, yeah?” He tilts his glass almost imperceptibly in Mark’s direction and pushes off the bar; Mark turns quickly, but loses Jackson in the crowd almost immediately. He curses under his breath and slumps back against the bar, drumming his fingers on the wood as he waits for the drink he never intended to order.

Meanwhile, out on the dance floor, Ten and Taeyong have called a truce.

It's far from the first time. They've had their ups and downs as far back as either of them can recall—and every time, one way or another, they find their way back. It's not that they dislike each other. If anything, it's the opposite: they're too similar in too many ways, headstrong and so, so passionate.

They're also both excellent dancers.

The way they fit together, _move_ together, is unreal—something they're well aware of, even beyond the dance floor. It's rare that they weaponize it, but then again, an opportunity like this doesn't come along every day.

Taeyong had pulled Ten aside only minutes earlier. "Doyoungie is up there," he'd said, indicating the 127 booth.

Ten didn't look. "And?" 

"Johnny is up there too."

And suddenly Ten understood—this was Taeyong's apology for his backhanded comment a few weeks back. "You don't need my help to seduce Doyoung, though," he'd said; "No," Taeyong agreed, "And you don't need mine to seduce Johnny, probably." Ten must have looked skeptical, because Taeyong continued, "I know it's been a while, but…" He let that statement hang unfinished between them—for himself and Ten? For Ten and Johnny?—before continuing, "Doesn't it sound like _fun,_ at least?"

_Fun_ sounds trivial. _Fun_ sounds like the opposite of what Ten has been feeling for too long, hung up on whether they're going to be able to pull this off, whether their lives are going to be their own or over after next week. 

_Fun_ sounds like exactly what he needs.

Which is how they've found themselves here, dancing up on one another, putting everyone around them to shame—and it's working.

Ten won't let himself look, won't give either of them the satisfaction, but he feels Taeyong smirk against his neck and he _knows_ , even before Taeyong murmurs it into his ear. "They're looking."

Above them, in the 127 booth, Doyoung and Johnny are sitting side by side, taking a break from dancing. Jeno’s head is in Doyoung’s lap, Doyoung’s fingers carding absentmindedly through his hair as he and Johnny talk. Jeno hardly notices when their conversation trails off, but he does notice when Doyoung’s fingers stop moving. He nudges at his hand, whining _hyung_ , until he sees where Doyoung is staring and sits up to take a look for himself.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters when he catches sight of Ten and Taeyong wrapped up in one another, his gaze slipping between the two of them and the way Doyoung’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Beside them, Johnny is at war with himself. 

He doesn’t generally think of himself as a jealous person. Certainly has no justification for it here, now, when he and Ten haven’t been a thing for years, but something about this moment feels—deliberate. He tells himself it’s wishful thinking, it’s ghosts of the past, it has nothing to do with him at all, and he nearly misses it when Doyoung murmurs, “This show isn’t just for me, hyung.”

As if on cue, Ten winds a hand around the back of Taeyong’s neck, no space left between them, and finally, _finally_ looks up to see if Johnny is watching. Ten’s expression is unreadable when their eyes meet, but as he pulls Taeyong’s hips flush against his own, Johnny makes up his mind. Doesn’t let himself stop to consider what a bad idea it is, doesn’t hesitate—just sets his drink aside and gets to his feet, glancing sidelong at Doyoung. “You coming?”

Johnny may not be a jealous person, but Doyoung is. Jeno knows this, watching the gears in Doyoung’s head turn; Johnny knows this too, speaking up again only moments later. “Let me amend that. Are you really gonna let Ten touch your man like that?”

That’s all it takes. Doyoung’s on his feet within seconds, pausing only to check on Jeno (“Are you good, Jeno-yah?”), who nods, lounging back on the couch with his drink as he gestures for Doyoung to _go._ The look Doyoung shoots him in return is relieved, grateful, and Jeno smiles as he watches him follow Johnny out of the booth. They don’t get many opportunities like this, Jeno knows, and he won’t deny his hyung this chance.

Johnny can hardly hear the music beyond the thud of the bass, nearly indistinguishable from the pounding of his heart in his chest, as the two of them make their way down the steps to the dance floor. His misgivings are catching up to him— _Ten is_ leaving, _doing this now is only going to wreak havoc on us both, what if Ten doesn’t want this at all_ —but still his feet keep carrying him forward.

Then they’re face to face, and every doubt in Johnny’s mind fades to static.

Doyoung’s already tugged Taeyong away, fingers wrapped around his wrist (Taeyong goes easily, giggling as he presses a kiss to Doyoung’s neck), but Johnny and Ten hardly notice. Johnny lets himself _look_ for a moment too long—taking in Ten’s dark eyeliner, the tight tank top clinging to the curve of his waist, the jewelry glittering on his fingers, wrists, ears—before Ten takes a step closer, still moving in time with the music. “Dance with me.”

It’s the permission Johnny didn’t realize he was waiting for. He moves into Ten’s space, a hand settling on his waist; Ten’s arms come up to wrap around his neck and Johnny can’t keep looking at him, can’t look away. His other hand rests on Ten’s jaw, Ten’s face tilted up to Johnny’s, each of them searching for something reflected in the other’s eyes. Johnny can’t tell whether they’re dancing or just holding one another, breathing the same air, but it doesn’t matter: he can feel Ten’s heartbeat, just as quick as his own. His gaze drops down to Ten’s lips, just for a moment, and as Ten takes a shaking breath Johnny draws him closer, murmuring, “Let’s go for a ride.” Ten feels Johnny’s lips brush against his ear as he speaks, breath hot on his skin, and he’s helpless to do anything but nod his assent.

\---

“Having fun, hyung?” Doyoung asks as he presses Taeyong into the darkest corner he can find. He can hardly see anything but Taeyong’s glittering eyes, but he can hear—hear the way Taeyong just laughs, delighted to have gotten a rise out of Doyoung. Doyoung loves the sound. He can’t stand it. He crushes his mouth to Taeyong’s to get it to stop.

Taeyong’s panting when Doyoung pulls back; they both are, out of breath, pressed too close and wanting more than they can have. Still:

“Can I—” Taeyong doesn’t finish the question, just runs his tongue along the seam of Doyoung’s lips, a hand slipping between his legs. Doyoung curses quietly, holding Taeyong back by the hair to look at him properly—his eyes are adjusting, and he can almost see the curve of Taeyong’s mouth, the glint in his gaze pleading and hungry as hell.

“Here? Now?” Taeyong nods. Doyoung should tell him no, but—

“You’re incredible,” Doyoung murmurs reverently. Taeyong smiles—sweet, and anything but—and sinks to his knees.

\---

Up in the SuperM booth, Baekhyun’s eyes follow Ten as he slips out the door of the nightclub alongside Johnny, before his gaze drifts back to the dark corner where Taeyong had disappeared with Doyoung a few minutes earlier. Taemin, sitting beside him, watches until Ten is out of sight before clapping Baekhyun on the shoulder sympathetically. He knows what Baekhyun’s worried about, knows he's wondering whether the party was a terrible idea, knows there’s really nothing he can offer that will make much difference, but—“Shots?”

The grin Baekhyun gives him in return is nothing short of radiant. “Shots.”

\---

Ten shivers when he and Johnny step outside: it’s uncharacteristically chilly for May and he’s been dancing for hours, the sweat on his skin cooling rapidly. Johnny draws him closer instinctively and a smile crosses Ten’s face, somewhere between startled and satisfied. “My car or yours, hyung?”

“I’ve got the Range Rover,” Johnny says, as though that’s an answer, and Ten doesn’t bother to suppress his noise of disgust. “That gas guzzler? Really?”

“I was driving the kids and it’s got a ton of space. Sue me,” Johnny says, and Ten laughs, abandoning all pretense and leaning up to press a kiss to Johnny’s jaw. “Sounds perfect.”

Johnny unlocks the car as they approach but lets Ten step forward first, arm slipping from around his waist. The corners of his mouth rise as Ten reaches for the back door handle, glancing back at Johnny for confirmation. “I know you wanted to go for a drive, but…”

Ten pulls the door open and Johnny shrugs, stepping up to hold it open for him unnecessarily. “We’ve both been drinking. We couldn’t possibly.”

“Don’t worry, hyung,” Ten says, lifting himself up—Johnny's hand hot on the small of his back, steadying him as he slides into the backseat of the Range Rover. “I’ll still take you for a ride.”

“That was _so bad,_ Ten,” Johnny groans as he gets in after him, shutting the door, and—it’s perfect. They’re both laughing as their lips meet, their first kiss in years as clumsy and unpracticed as their first kiss ever, but they wouldn’t have it any other way. “Plus,” Johnny adds as Ten climbs into his lap, knees on either side of Johnny’s hips, “I think I’m gonna be the one taking you for a ride,” and the noise Ten makes is somewhere between amused and aroused as he captures Johnny’s lips beneath his own once more.

It takes some maneuvering, but it’s not the first time they’ve done this, in cars much smaller than this one. Their laughter dies down as Johnny gets his hands on Ten’s waist, Ten’s under Johnny’s shirt; they separate only long enough to shed their shirts and then they’re kissing once more, increasingly desperate, their hips flush against one another. Ten can feel Johnny growing hard in his jeans and rocks his hips down deliberately; there’s a phantom ache in his jaw that he wants to make real, murmuring against Johnny’s lips, “God, I want you in my mouth.”

He’s smiling as he swallows Johnny’s moan, but Johnny gives back as good as he gets: “That can be arranged,” he says, kissing the smirk off Ten’s face in return. “Let me just…”

Ten understands, sitting up just enough that Johnny can unbutton, unzip his jeans—not moving any material out of the way yet, but he lets out a small noise of relief as he gives himself room to breathe. Ten’s cock twitches in the confines of his own jeans, but Johnny’s hands are already there, working Ten’s pants open with one hand, his other arm wrapped around his waist. “Off,” he says, tugging none too gently, and Ten manages to work his way out of his jeans, kicking them aside and settling back in Johnny’s lap, clad in just his black boxer briefs. Johnny’s fingers thread into Ten’s hair as Ten leans down to bite at Johnny’s lower lip. “ _Now_ can I taste you?”

Johnny’s grip tightens for just a moment and Ten’s breath catches in his throat. “Please,” Johnny breathes, reluctantly pulling his hands away so that Ten can move. He ends up kneeling on the seat beside Johnny, hooking a finger into the waist of his jeans and echoing Johnny’s command: “Off.”

Johnny lifts his hips, getting his pants and boxers down just enough so that his cock springs free; Ten has a hand around him within moments, stroking from base to tip, thumbing across the head. _God_ , he’s big. Ten wonders if he can still take all of him.

(He can.)

“ _Fuck_ , Ten,” Johnny curses, back arching, trying to keep his hips against the seat so he doesn’t choke Ten—Ten, whose mouth is sinking hot and wet down the length of his cock without hesitation. Johnny feels his cock hit the back of Ten’s throat, lips wrapped around the base, and he’s overwhelmed, fingers flexing on Ten's shoulder. He wants to touch, but he's unsure of what's allowed, anymore; like he can read Johnny's mind, Ten reaches for his hand, guiding it to the back of his head. His fingers sink into Ten's hair once more—not holding him in place, only anchoring himself until Ten pulls back to breathe.

He takes a moment, forehead pressed against Johnny's thigh as he catches his breath. He mouths at the head of Johnny's cock, traces his tongue along the underside; he's teasing, but he can't help himself. Johnny's cock jumps, and Ten feels himself grow even harder; he wraps a steady hand around the base of Johnny's cock as he takes him into his mouth once more, sucking messily at his length until he feels Johnny tugging him back up.

Ten sits back on his heels—the only way he can look at Johnny properly, and oh, he's a sight to behold. The sheen of sweat on his skin, his bitten, shining lips, his honey brown eyes darkening as he looks at Ten much the same way. (Ten can imagine what he himself looks like: hair disheveled, mouth red, cock straining at the front of his briefs, and he can feel the flush rising in his cheeks.) Johnny reaches out to touch him but hesitates halfway, as if realizing that perhaps they can both think better if they keep their hands to themselves. It's a nice idea, Ten thinks distantly, dizzy with the taste of Johnny on his tongue, and he's glad when Johnny doesn't try to dance around it any longer: “Can I—can I fuck you?”

Ten surges forward to kiss him, climbing back into his lap, breathing, “ _Yes,_ ” murmuring, “Please, hyung,” against his lips. Johnny's hands are heavy on his hips as he kisses him back, still only half-believing that they're here, that this is happening, that Ten is even real. 

Ten pulls back from the kiss long enough to rid himself of his briefs (at _last_ ) and reach toward the floor for his abandoned jeans, retrieving a packet of lube and a condom from his back pocket. Johnny raises an eyebrow and Ten shrugs, refusing to be ashamed. “Never hurts to be prepared,” he says, and the way he licks into Johnny's mouth has him thinking Ten is absolutely right.

Johnny preps him, one arm around Ten's waist as the other reaches behind him to sink inside. His fingers are so long, so thick, and Ten finds himself gripping at Johnny's bicep, thighs trembling in anticipation. He stops Johnny sooner than he should, probably, impatient for it, rolling the condom onto his length and sitting back as Johnny slicks himself up. Then Johnny's lining himself up with Ten's entrance, leaning in to swallow Ten's moan as he sinks down onto his cock.

Ten takes a moment to adjust once Johnny's seated fully inside; it's been a while since he's been with anyone as big as him. He rocks his hips experimentally, seeing what noises he can pull from Johnny's lips, before lifting himself up and sinking back down, searching for the angle that will have him seeing sparks.

It takes a few tries, Johnny thrusting up to meet Ten halfway, but he knows when he's found it; one particularly sharp thrust has Ten gasping, “Right there,” and Johnny has to kiss him, can't help himself, arm tightening around Ten's waist as he fucks up into him.

They find a rhythm, hardly noticing the way the windows fog, the car rocking beneath them as Ten rides Johnny faster. Johnny's moaning Ten's name as he drags them both closer to the edge; “You feel so good,” he murmurs, and if Ten could concentrate on anything other than making them both come, he would kiss him. (As it is, he smiles sweetly at him, lifting a hand to push his hair out of his face; he clenches around Johnny's cock and watches in satisfaction as his eyes fall shut on a silent moan.)

Johnny knows when Ten's close: his tells are still the same, even after all this time. He gets more vocal, his hips stuttering, and when Johnny wraps a hand around his cock he can feel how wet he is, precome smearing down his length. It makes the slide easier as Johnny jerks him off, determined to make Ten come first. (He won't be far behind, he knows.) 

It's a matter of minutes before Ten's warning him that he's close; Johnny speeds up his thrusts, his hand moving faster on Ten’s cock even as their rhythm falls apart. Ten stills, hips jerking as he comes, his release spilling over Johnny's fingers, and the feeling of it (Ten tightening around his cock, his length pulsing in his grasp as Johnny works him through the aftershocks) drives Johnny over the edge as well. Ten's hazy in the wake of his orgasm, distantly wishing there weren't a condom in the way, even if realistically he knows the cleanup would be a nightmare. He kisses Johnny now, just because he can, both of them languid and lazy in the aftermath, before lifting himself off Johnny's lap and collapsing onto the seat beside him.

“God,” Ten says, once again allowing himself a moment to just _look_. Johnny's just as beautiful like this as he remembers—even moreso, really. “I missed you, hyung.”

“You missed my cock,” Johnny says. It's meant to be lighthearted, but he's not quite meeting Ten's gaze; “No,” Ten responds, thinking back to their conversation from days earlier, how _easy_ it had been. “I missed you.” Johnny understands, his clean hand tracing the line of Ten's jaw as he thinks, _I missed you too._

They start to set themselves to rights, Johnny tying off and discarding the condom, cleaning off his hand and both of their stomachs (“Got any wet wipes in those pants of yours?” he asks teasingly, and is somehow both stunned and not all that surprised when a packet of them hits his bare chest). They get their pants back on, but neither of them is eager to exit the car, the atmosphere heavy with things unsaid—things they want to say, after all this time. “C'mere,” Johnny says finally, pulling Ten into his arms, settling with his back against the car door, Ten's back to his chest. It's not comfortable, exactly, but Johnny wouldn't move for the world.

This is good, Ten thinks: he's not sure he could have this conversation face to face, looking one another in the eye. He plays with Johnny's fingers as the quiet settles between them before he finally speaks up, starting with a question that's innocuous enough, he thinks: “Why were you guys allowed out tonight?”

“I'm guessing Mr. Lee didn't want to piss off the leader of his best team right before the biggest job they've ever pulled,” Johnny says, and Ten realizes with a tilt of his head that Johnny is probably right. The ensuing silence doesn't last for long this time. 

True to form, Johnny isn't interested in beating around the bush. “Should we talk about this?”

In all honesty, Ten appreciates it: how straightforward he can be, like it gives Ten permission to do the same. “We probably should've done that beforehand, hyung.” _That's on both of us_ , he thinks. _We knew it, but…we also knew what we wanted._ He sits with the thought for a moment before voicing it, and Johnny can't disagree.

“You've been with so many other people,” Johnny says; he's not trying to shame Ten, just stating a fact, though Ten feels the flush creeping back into his cheeks as Johnny continues, “I assumed you got over me ages ago.”

“I don't know that I ever got over you. I just kept trying.” Ten cringes as he listens to himself speak. “Sorry, I—sorry. That was too much. This wasn’t—this doesn’t have to be—”

Johnny’s arms tighten around him, almost imperceptibly, saving Ten from himself. “And what if I want it to be?”

“Then we’re fucked,” Ten says simply, and Johnny barks out a laugh. “This is a terrible idea.” He feels Johnny’s arms loosen the slightest bit, and pulls them close around himself again. “That doesn’t mean I want it any less. Want _you_ any less.”

Johnny’s content with this response, though he can’t help but wonder: “Is it just me you want?”

Ten twists around to look at him, confusion etched across his features. “It’s been years, Ten,” Johnny says. “There have obviously been others. I’m just curious if any of them are still—” he gestures vaguely, as best he can without letting go of Ten.

Ten settles back in his arms, feeling Johnny’s heartbeat thud against his own. “It’s—not unfinished business, exactly, but. When they pulled us out of WayV for SuperM, Yangyang and I were kind of—in deep. He was deeper than I was, probably, but it wasn’t...it wasn’t one-sided.”

“Ten, that’s the textbook definition of unfinished business,” Johnny chuckles, then sobers as he acknowledges, “That’s pretty much what happened to us.”

They both go quiet, thinking, before Johnny adds, “Anyway, it’s fine. That’s all I’m saying. We’re not kids anymore. I know things have changed, for both of us. I know there are things I don’t know. If you want—maybe we can try to make it work.”

“Things may have changed,” Ten acknowledges, “but we’ve still got the worst fucking timing in the world.”

He twists around in the circle of Johnny’s arms once more to kiss him until the windows are steamed up again and they’re extracting themselves from one another “before we’re arrested for public indecency, come on, that’s the last thing we need right now.”

They gather up the rest of their clothes, pulling their shirts on and attempting to get their hair back into place. Johnny mostly succeeds but Ten gives up, running a hand through it and deciding to embrace the sex hair. “Do I look alright?” he asks, genuinely, and Johnny’s answering kiss—hands in his hair, of course—is both an enthusiastic affirmation and entirely unhelpful.

Johnny catches Ten’s hand in his own before they exit the car to return to the real world. “Let’s talk, yeah?” he says, as Ten laces his fingers between Johnny’s. “I know we’ve got too much going on to figure this out now, but if you want to try…”

He lets it hang between them—not asking for any promises Ten can’t keep, but Ten can feel the way his pulse picks up where their hands are connected. He leans in to kiss Johnny: brief, soft, smiling up at him in that way he’s always reserved just for Johnny. It’s been a while since he's used it, he realizes, and it feels good. “Yeah, hyung. I want to try. We’ll talk.”

\---

They talk.

Ten talks to Baekhyun, too, reassuring him that he’s still got his head in the game, that he won’t let this get in the way. He’s so guileless, Baekhyun knows it’s the truth.

He talks to Taemin, to Jongin; to Taeyong, even. All his hyungs looking out for him, too many hours cooped up together in the garage bringing about too many heartfelt moments, even if none of them have answers, even if the next (year, month, week) are all more of a question than a guarantee.

(“Talking” to Taemin and Jongin might be putting it generously, at least at first. They invite him to bed—for what might be the last time, Ten thinks, tries not to—and Taemin _knows,_ can tell from the very first hesitant touch. “Johnny?” he asks, pulling back, and Ten resists the urge to cover his face with his hands as he nods, confirms, “Johnny.” 

They do end up talking, then—about Ten and Johnny's tentative plans, about Ten falling for Johnny all over again but still wanting them, and how both of those things can be true at once. If anyone can understand that, Ten knows, it's Taemin and Jongin.

“We don't have to do anything,” Taemin reassures him. “If you want to talk to Johnny—” 

“I have talked to Johnny,” Ten admits, “And he's alright with it.” All he'd asked for was honesty (and offered some of his own, murmuring, _fuck, that's...kinda hot,_ when Ten told him about his arrangement with Taemin and Jongin. Ten keeps that to himself).

“Then it just comes down to what you want,” Jongin says. “Do you want this?”

Before Ten’s even finished asking himself the question, he knows the answer is _yes._ He takes Jongin’s hand, pulls Taemin to him once more, whispering, “Yes,” against his lips.

They fuck like they’re saying goodbye—because they are, in more ways than one. Ten doesn’t regret it, and when he tells Johnny over the phone later, Johnny is adamant: “Good. This is a fucking weird situation we’re in, Ten. I don’t want you—I don’t want either of us to regret anything.”

Ten wishes he could kiss him, but settles for talking them both to a heated orgasm instead.)

Johnny’s right: they can’t figure this out, not now, but Ten had meant it when he said _I want to try._ He doesn’t know what that will look like, not yet—neither of them do, or possibly could—but he thinks he’s starting to understand what Taemin and Jongin mean when they say _ride or die._


	2. vroom, like a black car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit where credit is due: the entire heist scene is heavily inspired by the last ~30 minutes of Fast Five (aka arguably the best F&F movie).

Too soon, or maybe not soon enough, the day is upon them. Race Wars, the biggest street race of the year—and the cover for the biggest heist SuperM has ever pulled.

Their chance to make their escape.

They don’t acknowledge it, as though doing so will make it _real,_ as if it isn’t real enough already, but it’s obvious it’s on all of their minds—their last hours together, their final moments as a team. It’s evident in the way Jongin teases Lucas more gently than usual, in the way Taeyong wordlessly offers Ten the bag of dried sweet potato he’s snacking on, in the way, when Baekhyun walks in on Taemin and Jongin (foreheads pressed together, eyes shut, a quiet, intimate moment) and tries to back away, Jongin reaches out a hand for him to stay instead. It should be awkward, Baekhyun thinks as he laces his fingers with Jongin’s, but it’s not—the three of them have been through so much, together and apart, been doing this for far longer than any of the others. Baekhyun’s glad they’ll have each other, but for the first time he lets himself acknowledge: he’s going to miss them too.

(He offers Taemin a sad smile, squeezes Jongin’s hand tighter.)

Mark, for his part, is a mess.

He knows the others think he’s on edge because of the race, the job, but that’s just the beginning of it, a singular thread unraveling from his frayed nerves.

He’s getting careless, consciously or otherwise, carrying his burner phone on him unnecessarily, checking it where he could easily be caught. There’s no reason for him to do so, no reason for him to be in contact with Yixing when everything is going according to plan, no last-minute surprises, no changes to report—yet here Mark is, flipping the phone over and over in one hand as he sits in the garage, waiting for the others to return. (It’s like he wants to be caught, wants the decision made for him, but doesn’t have the courage to admit it outright. To tell them the truth—about him, about everything.)

Still, force of habit or survival instincts or some combination of the two kick in when the others arrive back at the house—Jongin, Taeyong, Ten and Lucas all crammed into Ten’s battered Buick, with Taemin behind the wheel—and Mark shoves the phone deep into his pocket before he gets up to greet them. “Everything ready?” he asks, and Taemin nods. “All the pieces are in place.”

“Good,” Mark replies; nothing more needs to be said. He switches gears. “Baekhyun hyung’s in the kitchen—he said everything would be ready by the time you got back.” The others stop in their tracks and turn to stare at Mark.

“Hyung is _cooking_?” Ten sounds shocked, but Mark just nods. “I tried to help, but…”

He trails off, and Taeyong grins. “What’d you do, Mark-yah?”

“Nearly burned the samgyeopsal,” Mark mutters, his ears turning red, and the others laugh. “He kicked me out and told me to wait for you guys to get back instead,” Mark complains, and Lucas swings an arm over Mark’s shoulder, smiling fondly. “Thanks for delivering the message,” Jongin says, reaching out to ruffle Mark’s hair as he passes him by on his way into the house; Mark ducks his head, as much to hide his smile as to avoid Jongin’s hand. It’s the most at ease he’s felt all day, following the other members into the house, anchored by Lucas’s arm around his shoulder, the smell of food from the kitchen, his hyungs’ laughter and exclamations as they catch sight of the meal Baekhyun’s put together for them. It lasts for a few brief, wonderful moments—

—until Mark excuses himself to the bathroom under the guise of washing up for dinner. He shuts the door and pulls out the burner phone once more, sending off a quick message: just two words, deceptively simple for all the weight they hold. _All set_.

The response comes through moments later. Two more words, sending a spike of shame through Mark Lee. _Good work_.

He pockets the phone again and turns on the sink, the water as hot as he can stand it, as though he can scrub away his sins.

When he gets back to the kitchen, dinner is in full swing—dishes being passed around, loud conversations overlapping. Baekhyun presses a bowl into Mark’s hands and Taeyong gestures for his attention excitedly. “Mark, look! Look what Baekhyun hyung got just for you!” Mark peers beyond Lucas to where Taeyong is pointing and feels his heart sink.

A plate heaped with sliced watermelon, perfectly pink. _Just for you_. He wants to cry. He can’t cry. He looks down at the empty bowl in his hands for a long moment, composing himself, then back up at Baekhyun, who’s watching him carefully. “Thank you, hyung.” 

Mark knows Baekhyun can tell how emotional he is, can see him debating whether to tease or to let it slide, and he’s grateful when Baekhyun chooses the latter. “Don’t worry about it, Mark-ssi,” he says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Eat up, yeah? Big night ahead.”

Mark feels sick.

There isn’t enough space for them all to sit around the table, so they eat scattered across the kitchen—some on their feet, others perched on stools beside the counters. It’s rare for them all to gather together like this, and they’d be hard-pressed to remember the last time they all shared a meal as a team. It’s just another thing they don’t acknowledge, how unusual it is, and as Baekhyun looks around at each of them in turn, he feels a pang of regret. Maybe they could’ve been a real team. Maybe they should’ve given it more of a chance, stuck it out longer, tried to change things from the inside, but even as he thinks it, he knows it never would've been anything but a pipe dream. This plan, the potential for freedom, is the best chance they’re ever gonna have, and he hopes that even if this is the end, it’s the new beginning each of them needs.

When everyone’s finished eating and the conversation has died down, the reality of the situation setting back in, Baekhyun starts to speak. “Money will come and go. We know that.” The members turn to face him, uncharacteristically quiet as they hear their leader out. “But the most important thing in life will always be the people that we love. Whether or not they’re here in this room, just remember—we’re doing this for them.” He raises his glass, and the others follow suit. “ _Geonbae_. SuperM, fighting.”

“Fighting!” The echo of Baekhyun’s toast is somehow both fierce and subdued, a reflection of both sides of the members’ anticipation. Tonight, no matter what, everything changes—for better or for worse.

\---

A few hours later, the team is gathered in the garage, making their final checks and adjustments. “Testing,” Taemin tries with the press of a key on the computer in front of him. "Check," Lucas says from the front seat of the Aston Martin, lifting a hand to his earpiece to adjust it; Jongin repeats the same from the Maserati a few feet away. Taemin waits for confirmation from Baekhyun, Taeyong and Ten before offering Baekhyun a satisfied nod. “We’re all set.”

(Beside him, at a computer of his own, Mark tries not to cringe.)

Ten is the first to leave, climbing into the Supra A91 and starting the engine. “See you on the other side,” he says through the open window with the smallest of salutes; the others return the gesture as Ten pulls out of the garage and into the night.

Lucas, Taeyong, Jongin and Baekhyun are next. Taemin catches Jongin’s hand before he turns to depart, pulling him into a deep kiss; they exchange a long look when they break apart, speaking volumes without a word, and Jongin presses one last kiss to Taemin’s forehead before climbing into the Maserati GranTurismo. Taeyong, in the meantime, has made himself at home in the bright green McLaren 570S, Baekhyun in the orange McLaren 720S and Lucas in the black Aston Martin Vanquish he’d taken off Jungkook’s hands. The engines purr to life, switches clicking into place, fingers adjusting seatbelts and mirrors, and with one final radio check the four nod their goodbyes and pull out of the garage, leaving Taemin and Mark alone together.

“You nervous?” Taemin asks, his casual tone belying the anxious drumming of his fingers on the table beside his computer. All Mark can offer in return is a strangled laugh.

\---

If a regular street race is a live wire humming with electricity, with potential, Race Wars is a ticking time bomb—the same sense of carefully contained chaos, but as the stakes rise, the tension does too.

The first thing the SuperM members notice as they pull up to the race is the fleet of identical black Mercedes, almost oppressively uniform. The men standing beside them look rigid, out of place among the real racers—Mr. Lee’s men, as conspicuous as ever, there to keep an eye on the boss’s investments. “I’ll handle this,” Baekhyun says before cutting the engine, his words loud and clear through the other members’ earpieces.

One of the men is already walking toward Baekhyun as he climbs out of the McLaren, and Baekhyun greets him like an afterthought. “What can I do for you?” he asks, keeping his tone polite, level, staring at his own reflection in the man’s sunglasses ( _sunglasses, at this hour?_ Baekhyun silently despairs, only just managing to keep his mouth shut).

“Mr. Lee sends his regrets that he could not be here,” the man says, “But I’m sure you know how it is, Mr. Byun.”

Baekhyun does indeed. Mr. Lee is an overbearing presence at the legal races—endless photo ops and unsolicited advice, initiating business deals and ensuring that everyone knows the best of the best are _his_ —but he knows better than to show his face near Race Wars. Even if the police know, logically, that he’s involved, there’s very little they can prove as long as he keeps his distance. Still, he’s smart enough to know not to leave his racers unsupervised; he sends his henchmen to do his dirty work, to keep an eye on the teams and report back. 

It’s the same every year, and SuperM had foreseen this complication early on. The police they could handle, but if Mr. Lee’s security team found the 127 and WayV members running interference for SuperM, blocking their way, Mr. Lee’s suspicion would fall on them immediately. Hence—

As Baekhyun runs through the niceties with Mr. Lee’s men, Jongin catches Namjoon’s eye. They don’t approach one another, don’t do anything to attract attention to themselves—a look is all they need. _These are the ones we need you to keep off our backs_ , Jongin indicates with a tilt of his head toward the row of Mercedes, and Namjoon’s barely perceptible nod is response enough. _Nice of Mr. Lee’s men to make it so easy to keep track of them,_ Jongin thinks as he gazes disdainfully at the row of identical cars.

Across the way, Namjoon tugs Yoongi away from his conversation with Kihyun to whisper in his ear. Yoongi barely acknowledges the interruption, knowing better than to look to confirm: they’ve been doing this long enough that he knows the drill. Namjoon moves on to Seokjin next and Yoongi returns to Kihyun, picking up where they’d left off moments earlier: “Hang on—you and Wonho did _what_ with a Bugatti?”

While the atmosphere at regular street races is one of mutual camaraderie, of cooperation as much as competition, the lines at Race Wars are more clearly drawn: with a few exceptions (Yoongi and Kihyun, in point), groups and companies tend to stick to their own. When Baekhyun finally manages to extract himself from Mr. Lee’s men and join the rest of his team, they’ve made themselves at home among their usual partners in crime—literally.

Lucas, Hendery and Jungwoo are a bundle of chaotic nervous energy while Taeyong and Xiaojun converse off to the side in low tones; the Dreamies drift in and out, and the others are careful to toe the line between saying too much in their presence and just enough to keep their suspicions at bay. Johnny, Yuta and Jaehyun hold court with Renjun and Haechan, Kun with Chenle and Jisung as the clock ticks down, keeping their attention focused elsewhere. Jeno and Jaemin are in their own world, leaning against the Mustang Jeno will be racing later. They’re not kissing, but somehow their singular focus on one another feels even more intimate: Jeno playing with Jaemin’s fingers, Jaemin’s gaze fixed on Jeno’s lips, seemingly oblivious to the tension mounting around them.

\---

Back in the garage, Mark is hunched over the police scanner, listening carefully for a 10-59, a 10-68 across the city: anything that will distract the cops long enough to give the racers the head start they need. As he listens, Ten’s voice crackles across the line to Taemin’s computer. “We’re in position, hyung.”

“Good work,” Taemin says, just as Mark sits up, his expression turning to one of alarm and something resembling anticipation. Taemin glances over at him for confirmation before pressing the key that opens the line between Ten and himself once more, adding, “The race is about to start. You guys ready?”

“As we’ll ever be,” Ten confirms, and that’s the best any of them can hope for.

\---

At last, the words the racers have been waiting for come echoing through the street where they’re gathered. “Drivers, take your places.” They’re quick about it: every racer experienced enough to have earned a place in the competition is familiar with the routine. They’re grouped into fours, spread across the city, each driver the same distance from the finish line, though far fewer will make it there than start out. It’s irrelevant what route they take to get there—all that matters is who arrives first.

Lucas grins through his window at Hendery as they pull up alongside one another at their designated start line. It's not his usual warm smile, but sharper, somehow; there's a tension in his jaw he can't seem to shake, but he takes comfort in the fact that his hands, at least, are steady. He and Hendery exchange nods with their fellow opponents, Jungkook and Chenle; it's difficult to communicate much beyond that over the growl of their engines and the dull roar of the crowd, though honestly, it suits Lucas just fine. Namjoon’s words from weeks earlier echo in his mind: _are we talking or are we racing?_

(A few miles away, Jongin acknowledges each of his opponents—Seokjin, Jaehyun and Jeno—with a rev of his engine, sparking cheers and jeers from the crowd gathered around their cars.)

Baekhyun and Taeyong pull into place a few blocks away from Jongin and Lucas, respectively, as their assists—not officially part of the race, but on hand as backup. There's not much one can do to help at 180 miles an hour, but the faster they can get to their team members' sides in an emergency, the better. It's a common practice for a competition as merciless as Race Wars, the assists driving parallel to the racers' course to keep an eye out for their team members.

It also happens to serve SuperM's purpose particularly well this time around.

(Yoongi, Johnny and Jaemin pull up beside Baekhyun; Jimin, Kun and Haechan join Taeyong. Taeyong finds himself wishing, not for the first time, that they'd included Dream in their plan, though he's well aware of the reason they didn't: the Dreamies are safer knowing nothing.

 _They've also,_ he thinks, biting back a grin, _got a damn good chance of winning the race_.)

Messages pass between locations, carefully synced timers counting down, fingers tightening on steering wheels with barely contained adrenaline—

—and with one final signal, they're off.

The cars leap forward, engines roaring, leaving the spectators far behind in a matter of moments. They’re neck and neck off the start line, speeding down the road in a straight shot, city lights a blur as they streak past; it’s not until they reach the first turn that Lucas and Jongin edge out their competition, maneuvering smoothly around corners and leaving the others (barely, always just barely) in their wake.

(They’re not going to finish the race, they’d reasoned beforehand; they might as well have some fun while they can.)

The next turn brings Lucas to a busier street, but he’s more than prepared, dodging traffic and pedestrians like they’re nothing. There aren’t many obstacles to contend with—there’s a reason they do this late at night, at an hour and on a day when few people will be out. For all that they crave the adrenaline of the city streets (if all they wanted were a race, they’d stick to the track), none of the drivers have any interest in causing harm. There’s enough happening to keep them on their toes, but not so much as to divert them from what they came here to do—win.

Or, in the case of SuperM and their allies: distract, deceive, disappear.

Taemin keeps an eye on the members on the screen before him, minute dots moving across a map, as Mark continues to listen at the police scanner, foot tapping anxiously against the floor—until finally, _finally_ the report that they’ve been waiting for comes through. The cops catch wind of the race, Mark’s eyes lock with Taemin’s, and Taemin reaches for his computer. “Now,” he says with the press of a key, not wasting a moment, and Lucas, Jongin and Taeyong peel away from the race immediately, cars screaming in the opposite direction.

Mr. Lee’s men, who have been doing their best to stay hot on their trail, take a moment too long to react, to realize that their “assets” have abandoned their course. By the time they attempt to follow, Bangtan’s drivers have already moved into position, blocking their way so smoothly that it almost seems unintentional—just as they’d intended. Seokjin and Yoongi box one of them in, trapping him in the same four-block radius; Jungkook and Jimin toy with another, having a bit too much fun as they send him in circles. (It’s not a difficult task: if Mr. Lee’s men were as skilled as those they were hired to keep an eye on, they would be among his racers rather than glorified security guards.)

As Baekhyun pulls away from the race himself, heading in a different direction from the others, he wonders how long it will take them to catch on that the company tracers placed in SuperM’s cars have been transferred to Bangtan’s. He checks the rearview mirror of the orange McLaren as he speeds into the night: no black cars, no flashing lights. “Ten,” he says aloud, “I’m heading your way.”

With Bangtan’s distraction giving them the out they need and the police—momentarily—preoccupied with the race, the other members get to work.

Taeyong, Jongin and Lucas arrive at their rendezvous point within seconds of each other. They abandon their cars at the curb and make their way toward the vehicles planted there hours earlier: two identical black Chargers for Jongin and Lucas—and a massive armored truck for Taeyong. (The glint in his eye is a little bit wild as he hoists himself into the driver’s seat and pulls the door shut behind him.) With the press of a few buttons, the turn of a key, they’re all connected once more. “Fighting,” Taemin says, simply. “You’ve got this.” And with that, they’re on the move once more, a footnote in the race taking place across the city. 

For now.

They’ve rehearsed, readied for this moment in every way imaginable, but nothing could truly prepare them for the way it would feel, the final moment of calm before the storm, breath held in anticipation as the bank looms into sight before them—imposing, impenetrable.

(Inviting.)

“Ready?” Taeyong, at the head of the pack, asks, fingers flexing on the steering wheel.

“Ready,” Jongin and Lucas confirm in unison.

The quiet of the night is ripped apart as Taeyong hits the gas, crashing through the security barriers that lead into the bank’s parking structure. He’s driving reckless but purposeful, his specialty, the two Chargers following closely behind as he speeds into the parking garage and descends down the ramp, one level, two, three. He barely slows around each corner, and as he makes the final turn, he’s met with a wall—blank, unassuming, and very, very solid.

Taeyong grits his teeth, grips the wheel with white knuckles, and hits the NOS.

The armored truck punches straight through the wall, concrete crumbling around it, rattling Taeyong to the core; his hands tremble as he fumbles with his seatbelt, but as the dust starts to settle, he looks up and allows himself a brief, fierce grin. Their intel and their calculations were correct: the vault gleams a few feet ahead of him, and Taeyong has to keep himself from staggering toward it as he forces the door open and stumbles out of the truck.

Jongin and Lucas have fishtailed to a stop behind him, their trunks open against the breach in the wall. Leaving their engines running, they run to the backs of their cars and each begin to pull out the heavy steel cables coiled inside the trunks of the Chargers.

“Freeze!”

Jongin and Lucas have pulled enough jobs that the command barely fazes them, but even as they continue their work, hauling the end of each cable toward the vault, they exchange a panicked look. _How the hell did the cops already know we were here?_

“This is the police. Step away from the vault and put your hands where we can see them.”

The dust hasn’t completely cleared, and Taeyong has no idea how many cops are surrounding them—but, he reasons, if he can’t see them, they can’t see him, or Jongin and Lucas, either. He keeps an eye out nonetheless, restless, as he waits for Jongin and Lucas to finish their task. He keeps a hand on his waistband, on the gun he has tucked away, just in case. It’s loaded with blanks (he can’t stomach the thought of real bullets, and hopes he’ll never have to), but that’s usually enough to buy them the time they need, if it comes to that.

It doesn’t come to that. Jongin and Lucas are done in a matter of moments, the vault secured at numerous anchor points, countless practice runs paying off as they give Taeyong the _okay_. They’re careful to keep their voices down, to not alert the police as they emerge from the cloud of dust to dive back into their cars, slamming on the accelerators before their doors are even fully shut.

The garage erupts into chaos, one cop’s voice turning to ten, shouts and shots ringing out. In the midst of it all, Taeyong manages to make his escape, slipping past the police while their attention is trained on the Chargers, quietly opening the door of the Lotus Evora Ten had planted a few spots away earlier in the evening. Taeyong sends up a silent word of thanks that Ten had adjusted his seat and mirrors as he’d asked, then ducks down to wait.

Jongin and Lucas’s tires spin wildly, cables pulled taut, trying desperately to gain traction with tens of thousands of extra pounds in tow. It seems hopeless, and the police clearly think so as well, creeping forward with their guns drawn, shouting words that are inaudible to the drivers through reinforced, bulletproof windows. Then:

“Three,” Jongin says, the word echoing to Lucas’s car. Each of them flips a switch above their head. 

“Two,” Lucas continues, sounding eager.

“One,” Jongin finishes, and in unison, they each pull a lever mounted on the console of their Chargers. Six NOS tanks in the backseat of each car fire at once, and the cars strain forward. The extra power gives them the momentum they need: with a crash to rival the one from moments before, the vault tears free of the building and the Chargers are propelled forward, dragging it away through the underground garage.

The glint is back in Taeyong’s eye as he starts his engine and peels out of the spot, impossibly smooth, sideswiping two of the police cars as he goes. They hardly seem to realize what’s happened, a few of them staring dumbfounded after the vault while the others scramble to get back in their cars, to make their pursuit—not realizing, apparently, that a few seconds’ head start is all Jongin and Lucas need.

Taeyong keeps enough distance to avoid the vault’s destructive path, but not so much that he gets crushed under the debris that rains down in its wake. He drifts around corners as he follows after them, keeping an eye on his rearview mirror; he catches a few glimpses of red and blue lights, the useless sound of a siren, but nothing near enough to worry him.

The vault smashes through a support column as Jongin and Lucas finally reach the exit of the underground structure; Taeyong hits the gas, narrowly avoiding the avalanche of rubble crumbling down, burying the entrance behind him. The lights and sirens abruptly stop, the cops trapped inside, and for a moment, the drivers breathe easy.

Well, nearly.

(At times like these, Taeyong’s mind goes ten miles a minute, thoughts occurring to him and slipping away as quickly as they come. He’s driving on autopilot, relieved, and a little surprised, that the police didn’t station anyone outside the parking garage to stop them as they emerged—but then, they probably reasoned that there was no way SuperM could slip past them in such a confined space. That’s the beauty of this job, he thinks: with no intention of keeping their actions or their identities hidden this time around, there’s no stealth, no sneaking required. A true smash and grab, albeit on a larger scale than most.

But there are bigger questions to worry about, he realizes. Namely:)

“How the _fuck_ did the cops know where we were?!”

“ _Cops?_ ” Baekhyun, Taemin and Ten’s voices echo nearly in unison. “Fuck, were those gunshots?” Taemin asks; he’d assumed the sounds he’d heard were the vault tearing free, or the NOS firing. “Is everyone alright?”

“We’re fine,” Jongin says, “But I’d like to know why the hell the police were lying in wait when we got there.”

Mark sits silent in the garage, hoping his reticence comes across as shock.

“Goddamnit,” Lucas curses as the sound of sirens reaches their ears once more. “Already? We were supposed to have a bigger head start than this.”

Mark finds his voice. “None of this is coming through on the scanner. They’ve gone radio silent—they probably know we’re listening.”

“I’ll guide you guys as best I can,” Taemin says, mostly succeeding at keeping the panic from his voice. “You’ve got a straight shot for two blocks. Then take a right.”

“Got it,” Jongin acknowledges. He and Lucas had slowed down just a touch to allow Taeyong to get ahead of them, out of the vault’s reach, but they’re back to top speed, gas pedals pressed to the floor as they follow the bright blue streak of Taeyong’s Lotus.

They leave darkness in their wake as they take the first turn a bit too narrow, the vault taking out streetlights with a shower of sparks and the sound of tearing metal. “Oops,” Lucas says, sounding entirely unapologetic; Jongin chuckles drily. “Where to next?” he asks Taemin.

“Keep going straight another half mile, then go left.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work,” Jongin says, catching sight of what awaits them up ahead: a fleet of police cars, and officers laying spike strips across the road. “We’re going right.”

“Hyung, no! It’s too tight, we’re not gonna fit—”

Jongin can hear the doubt in Lucas’s voice, but—“We’ve got no choice. Now!”

Thankfully, Lucas doesn’t hesitate. They make the turn, their driving as synchronized as ever—but the vault swings wildly, crashing like a wrecking ball through the first floor of an office building on the corner. Glass shatters, debris raining down; the vault catches momentarily on a concrete column before wrenching free with a jolt that sends the Chargers spinning out until Jongin and Lucas manage to get them back under control. “Holy shit,” Lucas says. This time, it’s Mark that speaks up, tone tinged with disbelief. “Okay, _that_ one they’re talking about—did you just take out a building?” He’s met with slightly hysterical laughter in return.

A few blocks ahead of them, Taeyong makes a call. “I’m gonna get some distance. See if I can get eyes on the situation. I won’t go far.”

“Good luck, hyung,” Lucas says as Taeyong makes a left down an alley and speeds out of sight.

Eyes on the road ahead, Jongin curses. “Two more inbound.”

“Alright,” Taemin says, clicking across the map; after a moment’s calculation, he says, “You’ve got an intersection coming up.”

“Wh— _oh_.” The realization hits Jongin and Lucas simultaneously, and they’re ready by the time they reach the intersection. Jongin pulls his wheel right, Lucas left, and the vault comes sliding forward between their cars, smashing into the oncoming police vehicles. The sound is brutal, punctuated by the scream of the sirens coming to an abrupt stop; Jongin winces even as he shifts into reverse, the back of his Charger pushing up against the vault. Tires spinning desperately once more, he manages to move it just enough to shift back into gear and get out in front of it again. He drags the vault far enough, cable straining all the way, for Lucas to reverse around it and resume his place by Jongin’s side. It takes only seconds, but each one is precious—by the time they get back into position and on the move, there are already more cops on their tail.

They continue straight ahead for as long as they can, taking note as the streets around them grow busier, brighter with the lights of restaurants, clubs. When Taemin tells them to take a right, they’re more cautious this time—taking it wider, the vault staying on the road, though they’re making so much noise that any pedestrians have already scattered out of the way long before their arrival. They continue like this for minutes that feel like an eternity, playing chicken with the cops, dodging them this way and that, but never quite seeming to lose them. “Every time we lose one, two more show up,” Lucas bursts out, frustrated; “It’s like they know every move we’re gonna make before we make it,” Jongin continues for him, nerves sounding frayed. Normally he loves this kind of thing—thrill of the chase, of the escape, but today feels different, in more ways than the obvious. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, not when there’s an officer with a gun leaning out the window as his partner drives, his aim fixed on Lucas’s tires. Jongin’s looking around for a way to stop him, to swerve into his lane without sending both of them flying, to use the vault as a battering ram, to—

Before either of them can process what’s happened, another police car comes flying up from behind, bumping the first car and sending it veering off course, the officer’s gun slipping from his grip. A new voice comes across the line: “Need a hand?”

“Kun ge!” Lucas roars, delighted; he’s never been happier to hear Kun’s voice in his life. “Man, I could kiss you right now.”

“Please don’t,” Kun says mildly, hitting the brakes; another police car crashes into him from behind. “You’re all clear on the left.”

“Good afternoon, officer!” Another new voice that Lucas greets just as enthusiastically; even Mark can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips as he listens to Johnny Suh, in a police car of his own, make terrible quips like his life depends on it. “License and registration, please,” he says as he veers left to push one cop car into the median, then immediately right to send one cop careening into another, while a third crashes into the subsequent wreck. “We’re clear on the right.”

Watching in their rearview mirrors, SuperM’s drivers can’t help but admire the wreckage Johnny and Kun have left in their wake. “Thanks, guys,” Jongin says. “Anytime,” Kun replies; “Good luck,” Johnny adds. At the next intersection, Kun turns left, Johnny right, and Taemin speaks up once more. “You guys just carved out a ten-second window. Make it count.”

The Chargers continue straight ahead, vault in tow, disappearing under an overpass alongside a massive, unassuming garbage truck. The police are still in pursuit, but finally they’ve got some distance—ten critical seconds to use to their advantage.

When they emerge from beneath the overpass, Taeyong finally speaks up. “I’ve got eyes on you. You and them. They—” he sounds as frustrated as Lucas. “They really do seem to know exactly where you’re gonna be. Between this and them showing up at the bank earlier...if I didn’t know better, I’d almost say it’s like they’ve got trackers on you. Incoming.” As he speaks, two more cop cars come racing into view up ahead of the Chargers. Jongin hits the wheel, grits his teeth. “How the hell are we supposed to lose them?”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Taeyong is muttering quietly, as much to himself as anyone else. “The cops aren’t this good. _We’re_ this good. They must have eyes on us, somehow. We should’ve outrun them by now…”

Back in SuperM’s garage, Taemin is checking the map frantically, fully aware that he’s flying blind and trying not to let it show—or, at least, not bleed into his voice as he reassures the drivers, “We’re gonna get you out of this.” It’s a valiant effort, but Mark sees the way his hands shake as he releases the key that opens the line between them, hears his shuddering breath as he tries to figure out what the hell to do. They’re so close, _so close_ to succeeding, and to lose their chance at freedom now—it’s unimaginable, but losing each other is worse.

Mark looks at him, his own hands shaking, and feels his heart break. He can keep pretending he hasn’t made his choice (which is, in itself, a choice), or he can admit the truth he’s been avoiding for longer than he knows.

He made his choice when he didn’t tell Yixing the whole truth about the plan, when he didn’t plant trackers in every car, knowing they would end up here eventually. He made his choice when he sat cross-legged at the end of Taeyong’s bed, talking about what they’d miss; when he let Johnny squeeze his shoulder and tell him to be careful. Hell, he made his choice the first time he celebrated a job well done—with SuperM, with 127, with Dream. He made his choice the first time he cried in Ten’s arms, missing a life he’d never known; the first time he hugged Donghyuck in triumph after a race the others said couldn’t be won. He made his choice when he saw that goddamn plate of watermelon only hours ago, proof that he was, is, more of a person to SuperM than he’ll ever be to Jackson, to Yixing, to all the rest. He’s been making the same choice all along, over and over again, all the way back to the start.

He makes his choice.

“We’re gonna get you out of this,” Taemin had said; “Yeah,” Mark agrees, “We are.” He gestures for Taemin to move aside and presses the key to speak to the drivers. “Listen to me. You need to leave the vault and get into Taeyong hyung’s car.”

“ _What?_ ” Lucas says, at the same time Jongin demands, “Mark? Taemin, what the hell is he talking about?”

Taemin is staring at Mark, at a loss; Mark can barely meet his eyes, but he knows he has to. “Hyung,” he pleads, “Please. Tell them.”

Taemin’s silent for a long moment, searching for something in Mark’s gaze—and clearly, whatever he finds there, he can tell Mark means it. He leans in to press the key himself, but he keeps his eyes on Mark. “Jongin…Lucas...listen to him. Do what he says.”

“But, hyung—” Lucas starts, and Taemin cuts him off. “Do it.”

“You want us to _leave_ the vault? After all of that?”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Taemin says. His voice is almost frighteningly measured, tone carefully controlled. “There’s no time to argue. We’re on to Plan B, you hear me? Plan B. Do it,” he repeats once more before releasing the key. His eyes still haven’t left Mark. He asks the question, though he’s afraid he already knows the answer: “Mark...what the fuck is going on?”

\---

Out on the street, Jongin and Lucas have managed to evade the two latest cops; it only gives them a few seconds’ reprieve, but it’s enough. Taeyong skids to a stop beside the Chargers as they throw open their doors and climb swiftly into the backseat of the Lotus instead. There’s no time to hesitate, to question it, but Jongin and Lucas twist around in their seats as Taeyong races away from the scene, watching as the bank vault disappears from sight. “I can’t believe we’re just...leaving it there,” Lucas says, and Jongin turns back around, slumping down in his seat and scrubbing a hand across his face. “I don’t know what the hell is going on,” he declares, not for the first time, “But I trust Taemin.” Neither Taeyong nor Lucas can disagree with that.

“Do the others know we’re on to Plan B?” Jongin asks, trying to keep himself focused, on task—to control the few things he still feels like he can. He hates this, being trapped in the backseat while someone else drives, even when that someone is as skilled as Taeyong. “They all should’ve heard hyung’s message,” Taeyong says, “But it can’t hurt to confirm. This is only gonna work if we’re all on the same page.”

Jongin has no idea what page they’re on, hell, no idea what chapter, what book this is, anymore—but he knows Taeyong’s right. “We’ll make sure everyone who needs to know does,” Jongin says, nodding at Lucas as he pulls a burner phone from his pocket. Lucas follows suit. “You just drive.”

\---

“Hyung,” Mark says, pleads, “Hyung, there isn’t _time_ , please, you need to get out of here.”

“And what about you?” Taemin asks; Mark wrenches his gaze from Taemin’s. He wants to avoid the question, wants Taemin to listen to him without having to explain, but he knows that was never an option. “I can’t.”

“Why _not_ , Mark?”

Mark shuts his eyes, knowing there’s no coming back from this, and pulls the badge from his pocket, metal clinking against the burner phone. He clenches it in his fist before he opens his palm, face-up toward Taemin, and says the words, the truth he’s spent years trying to hide. “Because I’m a cop.”

Taemin’s silent for a long moment—long enough that Mark has to open his eyes, in agony awaiting his response. His gaze is fixed on Mark’s badge, expression disbelieving, only one word hovering on his lips. “ _How?_ ” 

“I’ve been undercover since I joined the company,” Mark says, and Taemin makes a strangled noise of doubt. “You were just a kid.”

“So were you when you joined,” Mark reminds him, and Taemin scoffs. “Yes, a kid with stupid ambitions about being the best racer in the world—not a fucking _cop_ ,” and Mark can’t disagree with him there. But: “Yeah, I was a kid. I was young and innocent and everyone wanted to look out for me, and no one in their right mind would have even begun to suspect me." 

He can see the moment Taemin realizes, understanding and betrayal etching their way across his features. Mark closes his fingers around the badge, trying to disguise the tremble in his hands. "I would tell you everything if I could, but we don't have time, hyung, please."

Taemin has a million questions he wants to ask, knows he won’t have the chance to. “You knew this way they would have to leave the vault behind,” he says, face impassive. Mark nods. “I’ve gotta give my bosses something.”

“Do you, Mark Lee? Do you even know which side of the fence you’re playing?”

He knows there’s no way he can win on either side, settling too long for a terrible in-between, but now, at least, maybe the others will make it out, even if he can’t. “I’m telling you the truth, hyung. I think that means I’ve chosen my side.”

“And how do I know you aren’t going to send the police after us the minute I leave? How do I know they’re not on their way to the others right now?”

“I don’t know what Plan B is,” Mark says, simply. Taemin stares at him. “Yes, you do. You were standing right there,” he points a few feet away, “Next to me, when Baekhyun told us the plan three days ago.”

Mark straightens his shoulders, his spine, sitting up and fixing his gaze on a point somewhere past Taemin. When he speaks again, his tone is clipped, his speech polite. “I told you I thought Baekhyun hyung was starting to suspect me, sir. He must’ve come up with a backup plan I didn’t know about, just in case. I don’t know where they’ve gone.” He relaxes his posture, the dutiful officer melting away, and focuses on Taemin once more. “If there’s one thing I can do, it’s lie. I’ve been doing it long enough.”

“But how do I know you’re not lying _now?_ ”

Mark gets it, he does. He wouldn’t trust himself either; he’s aware he’s given Taemin no reason to. But he knows the longer they talk in circles, the less time the others have to make their escape. He clenches his jaw in frustration. “I wouldn’t be giving you a chance if I were just gonna give you up like that, hyung. I could’ve said nothing, just sat here and waited for them to arrive, but…” _But no, actually, I couldn’t,_ he thinks, doesn’t say, not in so many words. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but please. If you’ve ever believed in me, in all the time we’ve been doing this—believe that right now, I’m the person you thought I was.”

Taemin doesn’t see what choice he has. He’s still skeptical, though he seems to realize this is the best chance he’s going to get: that some hope is better than none at all. He leans in to his computer, pressing the key to open up the line to the others, and says, in a tone that brooks no argument or inquiry, “I’m on my way.”

He starts to pack up the computers and equipment without waiting for a response, though he can’t resist another question as he does so. “Why the change of heart? Why now?”

It’s almost offhand, the way he asks, but he isn’t meeting Mark’s gaze, as though afraid of what he might find, and Mark feels his heart threaten to rise into his throat. It’s too much, too raw, too real, but if ever there were a time for honesty…

“Because you guys, all of you guys, Dream and 127 and even SuperM, even though we barely had a chance to be...you were more of a home to me than they ever were.”

Taemin doesn’t respond, doesn’t know how, though as Mark watches him zip up the last of the equipment he realizes—he’s not the only one whose hands are shaking.

“What would happen if you came with us?” Taemin asks, finally. His tone is still impossible to read, but it’s not an invitation, Mark doesn’t think, doesn’t dare hope; it doesn’t matter, either way. “They’d never stop searching for me. With the rest of you, they might give it up eventually—it’s only a matter of time before another team pulls off something bigger than this and you slip down the list. But me? One of their own? They wouldn’t be able to let that shit go.”

Taemin hasn’t stopped moving as Mark speaks, making his way toward the Challenger and loading the equipment into the trunk. He slams it shut and turns to look at Mark, really look, at last. Mark waits, knowing he hasn’t said enough, knowing he can’t, wondering if Taemin is going to say anything more—but he just sighs and walks to the car door instead.

He hesitates with his fingers on the handle, glancing back in Mark’s direction; he doesn’t need to ask the question. “No, there’s no tracker, hyung.” Once again, Taemin knows he has to take it on faith. “And you’re not gonna follow me?”

Mark laughs soullessly. “That’s one thing I didn’t lie about: I can’t drive. Really.”

The disbelief is back as Taemin shakes his head, looking like he’s at war with himself; he wrestles with it for a moment, then wrenches the car door open and climbs in without looking back. “Goodbye, Mark Lee.”

The door slams shut and he peels out of the garage, leaving Mark alone in the silence.

\---

He’s still alone, staring blankly at his badge on the table in front of him, when Yixing arrives with six officers in tow. The others get to work as Yixing approaches Mark, looking disappointed but unsurprised that Mark is by himself. He keeps his tone mild. “They’re gone, then?”

“The officers should have given us—them,” he corrects, cursing himself for the slip, “A little more leeway. As soon as they found themselves surrounded at the bank, they knew. Took everything we could use. I couldn’t stop them.”

Yixing’s not an idiot: he knows that’s a lie, but he lets it slide. For now. “They just...left you behind? Nothing to keep you from talking? No punishment for betraying them?”

Mark sidesteps the second question, keeping his response vague: “They’re not bad people, sir.” ( _But you know that,_ he thinks.)

The other officers are turning the garage over around them, leafing through files and tossing them aside, pawing through the glove boxes and trunks of the vehicles left behind. Mark isn’t sure what they think they’re going to find.

Yixing takes a step closer, his voice growing quieter. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark sees the nearest officer glance between them, shifting closer in an unsubtle attempt at eavesdropping; Mark has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“I know you’ve been lying to me,” Yixing says, done beating around the bush at last. “My question is: have you been lying to yourself because you can’t see past your ‘team’?” He doesn’t give him a chance to respond. “They’re not your team anymore, Mark. Look around you. You’re alone. They’ve abandoned you.”

 _I deserve worse_ , Mark thinks, knows far better than to say.

(He thinks about the distress in Taemin’s voice as he’d attempted to reassure Jongin; thinks about the look in his eye as he left Mark behind. Thinks further back, to the way Jisung would tremble with worry before each Dream race, even when the other members didn’t appreciate the danger themselves; to the way Johnny would constantly look out for his dongsaengs, never letting the fact that he’d been doing this for longer than any of them make him bitter or cruel. He’s got stories for each team, each member: they all deserve better, Mark thinks. Better than him, certainly—and he’s not going to give them up now.

He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to: Yixing can see it on his face.)

Static crackles over the radio clipped to Yixing’s belt; Jackson’s voice follows a moment later. “Sir, we’re at the vault.” Yixing lifts the radio to his lips. “And?”

There’s a long, reluctant pause before Jackson speaks up once more. “It’s empty, sir.”

Yixing’s gaze returns to Mark, sharp enough to cut glass, and even before he speaks, Mark knows it’s his turn to start talking. “Taemin hyung said something about a Plan B before he left.” _The best lies,_ he thinks: _as close as possible to the truth._ “They must’ve had a backup plan. I told you, sir, Baekhyun hyung was asking too many questions…”

Yixing finally loses what’s left of his patience, rounding on Mark. “Think, Officer Lee! You spent so much time with them—even if they didn’t _tell_ you, you must have an idea of where they’ve gone.”

 _You spent so much time with them_. It’s true: all those years, all those moments, each one all the more reason to keep his mouth shut. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know.”

He’s made his choice, but still it hurts, the look on Yixing’s face; Mark’s let too many people down, faced enough disappointment of his own making in the past few hours to last him a lifetime. Yixing gestures toward the eavesdropping officer, who drops the file he’s holding and reaches for the handcuffs at his waist. Mark doesn’t resist, though the metal of the cuffs is ice cold around his wrists.

“Lee Minhyung, you are under arrest for the obstruction of justice…”

He barely hears the rest of his rights; head bowed, he doesn’t dare meet Yixing’s eyes as he’s led away.

(“Do you know the difference between a cop and a criminal, Officer Lee?” Yixing had asked him, once. 

“What, sir?”

“One bad judgment call.”

Yet even now, Mark isn't convinced he's made the wrong choice.) 

\---

Miles away, the Lotus pulls up to an unfamiliar garage, its passengers only distantly aware of how drastically things have shifted. They peer up at the garage, begrudgingly impressed: it's larger than SuperM's, imposing even from the outside.

“We're here,” Jongin says, and Baekhyun's voice echoes back through their earpieces in response. “Finally come to join the party, huh?”

As he speaks, the garage door rises; Taeyong drives the last few feet inside and comes to a stop, the door rolling shut behind the Lotus once again.

Lucas lets out a low whistle as they step out of the car, taking in their surroundings, realizing that _impressed_ might be an understatement. “Shit,” Jongin says, echoing Lucas’s sentiments, “I knew Bangtan was rolling in it, but this is insane.” The garage is huge, rows of cars in nearly every color, make and model imaginable lining the walls. The tech and equipment are top of the line, the furniture more uniform than the mismatched couches and chairs SuperM and the others are accustomed to, though the space is far from spotless—after all, it’s still home to countless vehicles and seven guys in their twenties. (As he looks around, Jongin can’t help but wonder how much of it belongs to the members themselves and how much is company property.)

He’s distracted from his train of thought as Baekhyun comes over to greet them; Ten waves from where he’s standing beside Yangyang. The three of them are dressed in the lime green uniforms worn by trash collectors, though none of the others bat an eye at their appearance. “Everyone okay?” Baekhyun asks; they nod their confirmation. “Good. Now can anyone tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, hyung,” Jongin replies. “Taeminnie will be here soon. Hopefully he’ll have answers.” He changes the subject, trying not to overthink it, not to let the others see how nervous he still is. He looks past Baekhyun, eyes widening as he takes in the sight: “How’s _this_ going?”

As Jongin takes a few steps forward, Taeyong moves to stand at Doyoung’s side, resting his head on his shoulder, Doyoung’s arm slipping around his waist. Everyone in the room is focused on the same thing, the one object that stands out monumentally even among such impressive cars and computers:

The vault. _The_ vault, scuffed and scratched from the beating it took as it was pulled down the road behind Jongin and Lucas’s Chargers, but still unquestionably solid, secure. Taeil and Winwin are doing their best to remedy that, typing away at computers hooked up to the vault’s keypad.

“I can’t believe we pulled this off,” Ten says, watching them work; “I can,” Yangyang responds, glancing at him sidelong with a grin.

_“You guys just carved out a ten-second window. Make it count.”_

_The Chargers speed straight ahead, vault full of money still in tow as they disappear under an overpass—where a massive, unassuming garbage truck waits, with Baekhyun at the wheel. An empty vault covered in canvas is hitched to the front of the truck._

_Jongin and Lucas split, Jongin shifting right, Lucas left, their vault sliding up the ramp into the open, empty garbage truck. The cables catch on the sides and come unhooked, and for a moment, only a moment, they can drive easier, the weight at their backs gone._

_Only a moment—and then they reach the front of the truck, where Ten and Yangyang are hanging off either side, dressed as sanitation workers. They each have a new cable in hand, attached to the decoy vault: Ten hooks his onto Jongin’s car, Yangyang onto Lucas’s, and as the Chargers pull away the canvas comes loose, exposing the new vault._

_Baekhyun hits a button and the ramp of the truck retracts, the back door sliding shut to conceal the real vault from view._

_The whole thing takes less than ten seconds._

_The Chargers continue on, emerging from beneath the overpass with the new vault in tow; the garbage truck, invisible by nature, follows at a slower pace. Ten and Yangyang pull themselves flush against the sides of the truck as the police speed past, sirens blaring, lights flashing, oblivious to the change-up that’s taken place right under their noses._

_Behind the wheel, Baekhyun smirks._

“We’re one hell of a team, huh, hyung?” Lucas asks Jongin, knocking against his shoulder; Jongin smiles back at him, but before he can respond, he hears Taemin’s voice through his earpiece. “Anyone want to let me in?”

Baekhyun’s already there, opening up the garage door for the Challenger and shutting it once Taemin is inside. Jongin greets him with a kiss, brief but a little bit fierce, their fingers interlocking even as he glances past Taemin at the car and then back at him curiously. “Where’s Mark?”

“We need to talk.” He looks around for Baekhyun and sees the others staring at him as well. Even Taeil and Winwin have paused in their work, looking hesitant, waiting for an answer to Jongin’s question. “Keep working,” Taemin says; luckily, they don’t need to be told twice. Taeyong, Doyoung, Ten, Lucas and Yangyang are still watching him, uncertain, but Taemin shakes his head. “Soon,” he promises: he doesn’t want to have to tell the story twice, but he needs to confer with Baekhyun first.

He pulls Baekhyun aside; Jongin comes too, hand still intertwined with Taemin’s. Ten glances over at them as they speak, unable to hear but unsettled by the furrow of Baekhyun’s brow, the troubled set of Jongin’s mouth. He sees Taeyong looking as well, and as their eyes meet they exchange a shrug, feeling helpless. They both turn back to the vault, watching Taeil and Winwin work, trying to distract themselves from the question Taemin didn’t answer. _Where’s Mark?_

Lucas helps, asking questions of his own to fill the silence. “Who are they talking to?” he asks, gesturing toward the phone Taeil and Winwin are speaking into every so often. “Jungwoo,” Doyoung answers. “He was an engineering student before he dropped out, so he’s helping if they have questions—and he’s keeping an eye on things at the race.”

“Is the race over?”

“Yeah, it ended a while ago.”

Lucas eyes their surroundings. "Do we have to worry about Bangtan showing up?"

Doyoung shakes his head. "They're still there. Hanging out with Monsta X, apparently. Jungwoo will let us know if they leave."

“...who won?”

Doyoung beams, looking like he might burst with pride. “Jeno.”

“I need…” Taeil turns away from the vault, starting to search a nearby table before finishing his sentence. “...a screwdriver. Where the hell do they keep their screwdrivers?” Frustration seeps into his voice. “I know where everything is in Dream’s garage, but here…”

Taeil looks up gratefully as Winwin hands him a screwdriver, though he glances sidelong at Taemin, Baekhyun and Jongin before turning back to the vault, unable to keep the worry from his expression. He knows the change of plans can’t be the result of anything good, and the faster they finish unlocking the vault, the better.

He gets back to work.

A few more minutes pass before they’ve cracked the final numerical code, opening one last panel—a biometric scanner, large enough for a man’s hand. Taeil lets out a shaking breath, setting his laptop aside and turning to Doyoung. “You have it?”

Doyoung nods and steps away from Taeyong for a moment, reaching through the front window of his Mustang to retrieve a translucent sheet with the distinct shape of a handprint printed on it. Ten raises his eyebrows at Doyoung. “How’d you get that?”

“Taeyongie hyung’s not the only honeypot here,” Doyoung says simply, passing the sheet to Taeil before returning to Taeyong’s side. Ten huffs out a laugh, surprised but impressed; he wouldn’t have guessed that Doyoung had it in him.

“Come on, baby,” Taeil murmurs to the vault as he lifts the sheet up to the scanner. He can barely breathe as he raises his other hand and presses it along the outline of the handprint, heart hammering in his chest as he watches, waits—

And with a _beep_ , the light beside the scanner turns green. Taeil lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his eyes falling shut as he drops his head in relief. He hears the lock disengage and pulls the sheet away from the scanner, glancing back at the others; Baekhyun, Taemin and Jongin have rejoined the rest of the group and are watching just as intently. Taeil turns to Winwin. “You want to do the honors?”

Winwin looks at the others for confirmation; only when they nod encouragingly does he step forward, gripping the handle of the vault door in both hands. With a deep breath, he twists the wheel. There's the groan of metal on metal as the heavy door pulls forward—

—and opens, piles upon piles of bills spilling forward as the door gives way. The vault is stacked with cash from floor to ceiling and for a moment, all the members can do is stare, stunned, thrilled.

Lucas is first to break the silence, letting out a disbelieving, delighted chuckle, and it’s like a dam breaks. “Yes!” Ten shouts, letting himself be swept up into a group hug with Lucas and Yangyang; Taeil and Winwin are cheering, exchanging clumsy high-fives, unable to take their eyes off the money. Doyoung pulls Taeyong into a kiss before wrapping him up in a hug, Taeyong burying his grinning face against Doyoung’s neck. Even Baekhyun, Taemin and Jongin, knowing what they know, aren’t unaffected by the sight: it’s a success, even if it’s bittersweet, and Baekhyun is smiling as he wraps his arms around them both.

The celebratory atmosphere doesn’t last long, but even as they gather around to split up the take and hear Taemin’s story, there’s the slightest sense of relief, of reassurance, that wasn’t there before. 

A bit of hope, even if they still have a long way to go.

“So why _are_ we here, hyung?”

Taemin takes a deep breath and starts to speak, glad to have something to do with his hands as he tells them, his eyes on the money rather than the way their expressions shift as they take in the news of Mark’s betrayal. He hates that he’s the messenger, hates to put a damper on what should be a happy occasion, hates that he’s hurting them, even if they need to know the truth. Yet still, somehow, he can’t bring himself to hate Mark. He wonders if that will come later, once it’s sunk in, once they have enough distance to get some perspective. But he keeps getting stuck on one thing:

“He waited until after we’d made the switch.” He’d been thinking it, but it’s the first time he’s voiced it aloud; he sees Baekhyun nod out of the corner of his eye, as if he’d realized the same thing. “He could’ve made us leave the real vault behind, but he waited until the decoy was in play. It’s like...it’s like he wanted us to pull it off, even if he knew he wouldn’t make it out himself.” For some reason, he’s still making excuses; he _wants_ to trust Mark, even when he has every reason not to. The police could arrive at any moment, take everything from them—but Taemin thinks back to the panic in Mark’s voice, the pain in his eyes, and he can’t bring himself to entertain the possibility.

(Even as he thinks it, he hears Mark’s voice in his mind: _if there’s one thing I can do, it’s lie_. He _should_ be worried, he knows, but—)

Jongin can see him thinking, overthinking; he knows there’s nothing he can say that will help, but he pauses in his counting to take Taemin’s hand, just for a moment, squeezing it reassuringly. Taemin’s answering smile is small but grateful.

Silence falls between the members: it’s not that they have nothing to say, but rather that none of them can find the words, though as they finish counting, one question becomes unavoidable.

“I know no one wants to be the first to bring it up, but time is not on our side,” Baekhyun says, “So I’m just going to ask. What should we do with his share? Split it between us?”

“I have another idea,” Taemin volunteers, “But Jongin isn’t gonna like it.” Jongin looks around in surprise, following Taemin’s line of sight—and his face falls as he sees him nod toward the car he arrived in. “So _that’s_ why you brought the Challenger.”

“I know we talked about taking the Corvette, but with the change of plans, I thought—”

“It’s a good idea,” Jongin acknowledges, begrudgingly.

“Does someone want to fill us in?” Taeil asks, looking between the two of them.

“Bangtan wants the Challenger,” Jongin explains. “So we leave them the car—and Mark’s share of the cash.”

“Seems like a fair trade,” Baekhyun says. “They didn’t ask for anything up front, but we couldn’t have pulled this off without them.”

“Isn’t 14 million pocket change to them, though?” Lucas asks. “I mean, look at this place.”

“How much of this do we think actually belongs to them?” Jongin says, voicing his thoughts from earlier. “It can’t hurt for them to have something extra their company doesn’t know about.” The others know all too well how right he is.

With that decision settled, they set to work finalizing the split, preparing to go their separate ways. SuperM has taken the time they need, said what they need to say to one another—or as much of it as they can bring themselves to—but the others take advantage of their last few moments together, reunions long delayed and too rushed to be satisfying. Taeyong, Taeil and Doyoung huddle together, speaking in low tones; the current and former WayV members are gathered in a tight circle as well, uncharacteristically quiet as they say their goodbyes.

Ten and Yangyang are the last to separate, Ten pulling Yangyang into a tight hug that for once, he doesn’t even try to resist. “I’m gonna miss you,” Ten tells him, voice soft against his hair, “But we’ll see each other again.” Yangyang doesn’t ask how Ten knows, doesn’t care if he’s lying, just squeezes him tighter, pretending for a moment longer that he doesn’t have to let go.

Doyoung’s got Taeyong wrapped up in his arms as well, one hand on his face as he kisses him deeply. “I love you,” he says when they break apart—straightforward, simple, seeing no reason to dance around the truth as the clock ticks down. Taeyong ducks his head, feeling his ears go hot; when he looks back up, Doyoung is watching him with the fond, exasperated expression he reserves only for Taeyong. This time, Taeyong doesn’t look away. “I love you, too.”

They’re finally ready, cash split and stored, Baekhyun gesturing for the SuperM members to circle together one last time. “For old time’s sake,” he says, reaching into the center; the others follow, piling their hands on his. “SuperM, fighting!” 

They don’t acknowledge the space between Taeyong and Jongin, the voice that’s missing as they shout in unison. They’ve gained their reward (packed into bags, stowed in the trunks of their cars), though the price they paid was steeper than they’d anticipated. “We’re one hour away from the rest of our lives. Let’s make it count, yeah?” Baekhyun says, echoing what they’re all thinking—they’ve come so far, and all that’s left now is to see it through to the end.

\---

Not an hour later, Namjoon and Yoongi are standing in the very spots Baekhyun and Taeyong had occupied earlier. Nothing’s visibly out of place, but both of them can feel it, though they have yet to voice it aloud—something’s off.

They don’t have to wonder for long. Jimin’s voice comes drifting from around a corner: “Uh, hyung?” He doesn’t specify which, and Namjoon and Yoongi exchange a quick look. They’re already moving toward him when Taehyung’s voice follows from the same spot: “Well, _this_ definitely wasn’t here when we left.”

Namjoon rounds the corner—and freezes, eyes wide, as he catches sight of the Challenger. He doesn’t even see the other members’ fond expressions as he steps forward, their eyes on him, his own fixed on the car, until he catches himself and looks around at them, questioning. “Wh—”

Seokjin is already reaching out before he can finish the question, handing him a piece of paper. “There was a note.” It’s just two lines—simple, direct, unsigned:

_Bangtan— thanks for your help. Not sure we can ever repay you, but hope this is a start._

Namjoon reads it twice, once to himself and once aloud; as he finishes, Jungkook speaks up. “The trunk’s open.” He glances at Namjoon, who gestures for him to lift it fully. He does—and goes silent, his eyes growing even wider than Joon’s. He looks back up at the others, a cautious smile creeping across his face; Jimin and Taehyung crowd around him to take a look for themselves, and their hyungs are quick to follow.

“Holy shit. Is this _real?_ ” Seokjin asks, in awe. Hoseok reaches out to check, thumbing through one of the stacks of bills, and comes away shaking his head in disbelief. “If they’re not, they’re the best forgeries I’ve ever seen.” Yoongi’s grinning as his gaze falls upon a still-floored Namjoon. “Guess we made the right call.”

“There’s gotta be at least ten million here,” Seokjin says, eyeing the number of bills packed into the trunk. “If this is what they left us...what the hell was their take?”

It’s Namjoon’s turn to shake his head in disbelief; he doesn’t have an answer, and hopes he never will. Hoseok’s clearly thinking along the same lines. “No news is probably good news, but I hope they made it out alright.” The others murmur their agreement, still half-stunned by the sight before them; then Jimin’s slinging an arm around both Jungkook and Taehyung, unable to hold back a triumphant laugh any longer. “Guys, I know we threw the race, but...I think this is reason to celebrate.”

He isn’t wrong. No one resists as Yoongi grabs the good whiskey, Jimin distributing shots amongst the members, all seven of them gathering beside the Challenger for a toast they never thought they’d make. “To SuperM!”


	3. brand new zone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's made it this far in the story—I so appreciate your comments and kudos, and I hope you'll be (at least mostly!) satisfied by the conclusion!
> 
> Epilogue subtitle from NCT Dream's 119.
> 
> (Happy birthday, Jongin!)

**_Six months later…_ **

Lucas stretches out on a chair just out of reach of the waves, his skin glowing, the sea sparkling irresistibly ahead of him. He allows himself a few more moments of peace, his eyes shut beneath his sunglasses, before he gets to his feet, walking to the water’s edge. The waves lap around his ankles as he gazes out at the impossible blue—he’s not sick of the sight yet, and can’t imagine he ever will be. He’s smiling as he fishes his phone from the pocket of his shorts, dialing the number and pressing CALL.

“Hello?”

Lucas feels a rush of fondness hit him, even stronger than he’d anticipated. “Hyung!” he roars, his voice reflecting off the water; he can hear the answering smile in Taeyong’s voice. “Lucas! How are you? How have you been?”

They spend some time catching up—still keeping their whereabouts hidden, for a while longer, until the others have made their escape—Lucas telling Taeyong about all the people he’s been meeting, Taeyong talking about all the rest he’s been getting. “It’s quiet here,” he says, and Lucas notes a contentment in his voice that wasn’t often there before. “That’s good, hyung. You deserve that.”

Taeyong hums, then asks: “Are you happy, Lucas?”

It’s something Lucas has been thinking a lot about, himself. “I’m figuring out what I want to do. It’s the first time I’ve had the chance to do that. To just...try things. See what feels right.” He pauses, considering. “I don’t know if I’m there yet, but...I think I will be.” Taeyong echoes his words back at him: “I hope you get there soon. You deserve to be happy, Lucas.” They say their goodbyes shortly after that, with promises to talk again soon.

It’s Taeyong’s turn: he curls up not in his favorite armchair but on the floor just beside it, one hand petting the dog at his side as he uses the other to dial a number on his phone. “Hey, hyung,” he says, smiling as Baekhyun greets him with a warmth to rival Lucas’s.

It’s fascinating, talking to Baekhyun now: he sounds so carefree, cracking jokes easily, witticisms rolling off his tongue like they’re second nature. He’s closer to the Baekhyun Taeyong knew before, as his sunbae rather than his teammate—back when they hardly knew one another, only crossing paths by virtue of the races and their shared company. Before he became a leader, with responsibility on his shoulders he’d never asked for, a maturity forced upon him he’d never truly wanted, even if he carried it better than he’d admit.

Taeyong is glad he doesn’t have to anymore.

“Have you heard from your old team at all?” Baekhyun asks, and Taeyong tells him what he knows: that they’ve got something in the works, something _big,_ though even he doesn’t know what, that Dream is involved this time.

Throughout it all, neither of them mentions the one name on both of their minds (Lucas hadn’t spoken of him either, and that speaks volumes as to how deep the betrayal runs, Taeyong thinks). It’s been months, but it’s still too soon—to talk about how they’d seen it coming, or hadn’t, whether by choice or ignorance, and how both of those things could be true at once. (How they could still love Mark, still feel guilty for leaving him behind, even after what he’d done.)

The dog nudges at Taeyong’s hand; he chuckles as he realizes he’s gone still and resumes petting her, murmuring an apology. “Someone there with you?” Baekhyun asks, and Taeyong laughs a little louder, nuzzling his face into her fur as he answers. “New friend. I think you’d like her.” There’s the sound of a car horn from outside, and as if on cue, she lets out a bark. This time, it’s Baekhyun’s turn to smile. “I’m sure I would.”

When they hang up, Baekhyun gets to his feet, stretching briefly; it’s dark where he is, the floor-to-ceiling windows of his apartment looking out over an impressive expanse of city lights. He grabs a Corona from the fridge, sipping at it contentedly, and reaches for his phone once more.

“Hyung!” Jongin and Taemin’s voices exclaim in unison, and already Baekhyun finds himself rolling his eyes fondly at their enthusiasm. Talking to them is easy as breathing, like no time at all has passed; comfortable, comforting, like picking up the threads of conversations they’ve had a hundred, a thousand times before.

“Where are you guys?” Baekhyun asks when the background noise on their end of the line gets too loud to ignore. “Out to eat,” Jongin answers. “Local place. The food’s amazing.”

“So you guys are good?”

“Better than ever.” It’s Taemin this time, and Baekhyun can picture the scene: the two of them tucked away in the corner of a busy restaurant, phone on the table between them, Taemin squeezing Jongin’s hand, the two of them gazing into each other’s eyes in that maddeningly adoring way they have. Baekhyun cracks a joke to lighten the atmosphere, unable to resist teasing them just a bit.

(He really does miss them.)

“You seem more like your old self,” Jongin notes a few minutes later. “Life on the run treating you well, hyung?” Baekhyun barks out a laugh, gaze drifting across his surroundings: “Not bad, honestly.” Jongin chuckles. “Glad to hear it.” 

When Jongin speaks again, his tone is softer: “Taemin’s off paying the bill.” He pauses, then adds, “You know, this is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”

“It’s because you’re free,” Baekhyun says, and Jongin lets out a murmur of agreement. “Yeah, hyung. We all are.”

Taemin returns, and after a couple more minutes of back-and-forth, familiar banter they’d all missed more than they realized, the three of them say their goodbyes. “Talk soon, hyung,” Jongin says, and Baekhyun knows that’s a promise he’ll keep.

There’s a mischievous glint in Taemin’s eye as he takes Jongin’s hand on their way out of the bar, his voice low as he asks, “You wanna race on the way home?”

Jongin’s answering grin is equally as wicked. “Last one there does the dishes?”

 _“Fine,”_ Taemin agrees with a groan.

It’s reckless, racing so openly, but Taemin can’t bring himself to regret the suggestion when he catches glimpses of Jongin behind the wheel of his car, illuminated by the glow of streetlights and traffic signals. He looks exhilarated, that expression he only gets when he’s driving—top speed, leaving everything else behind for one blissful, irreplaceable moment.

It’s not far from the restaurant to their place, but they both take the race seriously—Jongin wins, but barely, and Taemin is cursing good-naturedly as he steps out of his own car. “I almost had you!” Jongin pulls him against his side, grinning triumphantly: “Don’t you know whoever suggests the competition always loses?” Taemin shoves at him with a laugh but Jongin just pulls him closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

They make their way inside, toeing off their shoes and dropping their keys on the table just inside the door. “You wanna give him a call?” Jongin asks. “I’ll grab us some drinks and come say hi in a minute.” Taemin nods, dropping onto the couch and sprawling out as he dials the next number.

“Hello? Taemin hyung?”

Ten’s voice always has the same effect on Taemin: he smiles automatically, the months they’ve been apart melting away. “How are you, Ten?”

Busy, as it turns out. “I’m in the car,” Ten tells him, and Taemin nods as though Ten can see him; that explains why his voice sounds so far away. “I’ve got, uh—a thing with a guy in a place,” Ten says, keeping it deliberately vague, and Taemin laughs aloud. “Is Jongin hyung there?”

“Hi, Ten,” Jongin calls as he crosses the threshold with two beers in hand, timing as impeccable as ever. He hands Taemin his drink, nudging his feet aside so he can sit. “A thing with a guy in a place, huh?”

“It’s important business, hyung,” Ten says, mock-serious, and Jongin lifts his bottle to tip the edge against Taemin’s. “Cheers to that.”

“This whole freedom thing isn’t so bad, huh?” Ten says, and Jongin chuckles; “Speaking of,” Taemin says, “Have you heard from Johnny recently?”

“Yeah,” Ten responds, the tone of his voice all too familiar, even in that one word: fond, but with an unavoidable edge of concern. That’ll be there until they’re reunited, Taemin knows, and his heart aches for Ten. “He said things have definitely gotten more strict since we left. Getting out is gonna be harder this time, but...they expected that. They’ll deal with it.”

“Hey, we pulled it off, right?” Jongin says. “They will too.” It’s a vote of confidence Ten doesn’t entirely trust—they were all a wreck leading up to their own escape, despite how hard they’d tried to pretend they weren’t—but he appreciates it nonetheless. “Thanks, hyung.”

“One thing’s for sure,” Taemin adds, his mischievous smile returning, “He’s got plenty of motivation to make it out in one piece. Johnny’s a lucky guy, Ten.”

 _“Hyuuung,”_ Ten whines; Taemin and Jongin’s eyes meet over their drinks and they dissolve into laughter, both of them picturing the embarrassment on Ten’s face, the flush rising in his cheeks. “We love you, Ten,” Taemin says when they catch their breath, “And I meant every word of that.”

Ten’s still blushing, still smiling, when he hangs up a few minutes later. The feeling is mutual: he loves Taemin, loves Jongin, and he’s always been rooting for them. His one hesitation upon getting involved with them was that his presence would cause problems, divide them somehow—but they’d quickly put those worries to rest, reassuring Ten that wanting him didn’t mean they loved each other any less. Even the rules they set between themselves were just further proof of how well they understood, respected one another. Ten’s never seen two people more perfectly suited, more in love—he’s happy that they have each other.

He shifts lanes, the white Camaro moving seamlessly under his touch. It’s been a while since he’s been on the open road like this, and he’s savoring every moment—the highway stretching out before him, the sky above endlessly blue, the car he can finally afford himself at his fingertips. _Freedom._

There’s just one thing that’s missing.

His thumb hovers over a button on the steering wheel: he hesitates only a moment, then presses down before he can think better of it. “Call Johnny,” he says aloud. The line rings once, twice, then—“Hello?”

Johnny sounds flustered, a little out of breath, and Ten feels a brief pang of guilt. “Is this a bad time? I can—”

Johnny cuts him off before he can say anything more. “We’ve already established that we have the worst timing in the world. Don’t you dare hang up.” Ten laughs. “What are you working on?”

“Porsche for our next job. She’s incredible—I wish I could show you.” Johnny still sounds distracted. “Sorry. Give me a sec.” He sets the phone aside and there’s a loud noise, followed by the unmistakable sound of a high-five. “Nice,” Johnny is saying as he lifts the phone back up to his ear. “Okay! I’m back. What are you up to?”

“Important business,” Ten tells him, echoing his earlier conversation; “Alright, keep your secrets,” Johnny says, but Ten can hear the amusement in his voice.

He hates to kill the mood, but he has to ask—the one question he wants to avoid, yet somehow also the one he wants to ask the most. “Is there any news about Mark?”

“No news,” Johnny says; he doesn’t want to have this conversation either, doesn’t want to think any more than he already has about the fact that the kid he practically raised wasn’t the person he thought he was. “I don’t know if that’s good news. I don’t know what I would consider good news, anyway.” 

He has a point, Ten thinks. “Just...let me know if you hear anything, yeah?”

“I will,” Johnny promises. “Did you—was there anything else?”

“I just...wanted to say hi,” Ten admits, and Johnny’s voice is warm as he responds, “I’m glad you did.” He hesitates a moment, then adds—a little louder, as if for someone else’s benefit—“It’s not just me working on this car, actually. You wanna say hi to my partner in crime?”

“Who—” Ten starts to ask, trying to identify the barely perceptible shift in Johnny’s tone—and then he realizes. “Oh. Sure,” is all he can manage in response. Of course Johnny’s on the same page—steps ahead of him, even. “Hyung...have I mentioned lately that I love you?”

Johnny laughs, bright and open, and Ten thinks, not for the first time, that it might be his favorite sound. “It’s always good to hear. And I love you, too, Ten.”

And then he’s handing the phone over, a new, familiar voice coming across the line a moment later. “Hello?”

A grin dawns slowly across Ten’s face as he shifts lanes once more and hits the gas. “Hey, baby.”

**EPILOGUE  
** _(the siren in my ears sounds like a sonata)_

“We need one more.”

“We don’t—”

“We’ve run the numbers over and over again. There’s no way around it. We need one more.”

Jeno sighs deeply, hating himself for the suggestion even before it’s left his mouth. “What about—”

“Don’t,” Renjun says, his tone brooking no argument. “Don’t even say it.”

Jeno pushes ahead anyway, knowing full well he’s toeing a line, venturing into dangerous territory. “He already knows what it is we do— _and_ he was a cop. Wouldn’t it make sense to talk to him, at least? See what he can tell us?”

Donghyuck stays silent, his gaze dropping to the floor as he feels Jeno glance his way. Jeno isn’t entirely surprised—Hyuck had taken the news the hardest out of all of them. It’s Jisung, instead, who speaks up next. “I don’t think we should bring him into this. I don’t think the hyungs would want us to, after what he did…”

“Yeah, well,” Chenle says, bitter, “They didn’t even include us in their last plan—they were gonna use our _garage_ without telling us—so I’m not sure how much I care about what the hyungs want.”

“Chenle’s got a point,” Jaemin agrees. “And it’s not a bad idea, seeing how the other side thinks.”

“But we can’t trust him,” Jisung insists, and Renjun throws his arms up, gesturing toward Jisung, eyes wide, a silent _yes, thank you, exactly._

“We don’t have to trust him,” Jeno argues. “We tell him only what he needs to know. He won’t be doing enough to jeopardize the job, but we’re not gonna be able to pull it off without an extra set of hands.”

“Do we even know where to find him?” Chenle asks. “Last I heard—”

“I do.” Donghyuck finally speaks up, cutting Chenle off; all the others turn to stare at him. He avoids their gazes. “Hyuck, you know where he is?” Jaemin asks, treading lightly; “Yeah,” Donghyuck responds shortly. He doesn’t offer an explanation, and the others let it slide—for now. “Jeno’s right. This is the only solution that makes sense.” He hesitates, so briefly that the others wouldn’t notice if they didn’t know one another better than they know themselves, before he makes the call. “Let’s go talk to him.”

“N—now?” Jeno’s pleased that Donghyuck is on his side, but the abrupt suggestion catches him off guard. Hyuck, meanwhile, just shrugs. “Why not?”

 _It’s 2 a.m.,_ hovers on the tip of Jeno’s tongue, but it’s a weak excuse and he knows it—usually they’re just getting started for the night at this hour. He looks around at the others helplessly, but no one seems to have anything more to say. All the fight has gone out of Renjun and Jisung, neither of them able to find it in themselves to argue when Hyuck, of all people, has so clearly made up his mind. “I—alright. Let’s go.”

Jeno gets to his feet, starting toward the Nissan GT-R, but Donghyuck stops him in his tracks. “Not in that.” He nods toward a corner of the garage that’s been collecting dust for as long as any of them can recall. “Let’s take those.” 

Six bikes, nearly forgotten, unused since the Dreamies—minus Mark, of course—got their licenses, graduated to cars years earlier. Chenle narrows his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. He can tell, looking around at the others, that they’re all thinking the same thing. It feels—not like a peace offering, exactly, but like Hyuck is trying to level the playing field in Mark’s favor, put them on more equal ground.

He can’t decide whether it’s a smart move or not.

The members follow Donghyuck into the night, down backroads and alleys they can’t often navigate in cars. When they finally come to a stop, miles away from their garage, they’re in a neighborhood they’ve rarely visited by choice. The apartment building before them is anything but inviting but Hyuck rolls his bike forward nonetheless, approaching the rusting panel of buzzers outside the front door.

The button for one of the basement units groans with disuse under his touch; he holds it down for longer than strictly necessary, flecks of paint chipping away when he lets go. They wait for a long minute, trembling with some combination of impatience, anxiety and the chill of the fall air. Finally, a voice comes crackling through: “Hello?” He sounds drowsy, clearly having been woken out of a dead sleep. “Who’s there?”

“It’s us,” Donghyuck says.

 _“Hyuck?”_ Mark says, his surprise cutting through his exhaustion; “Don’t call me that,” Donghyuck responds. “Let us in, asshole.”

“What? ...why?”

“Because we’re not gonna leave until you do, and I don’t think you want us waking up your neighbors.”

Mark groans. They will, he knows—knows full well how goddamn loud they can be, and half the time, that’s when they’re not even trying. He doesn’t know why they’re here, what they want from him after all this time, though he can’t imagine it’s anything good; still, it’s curiosity as much as anything that has him pressing the buzzer to let them inside. 

He looks around at the apartment as he waits for the knock at his door, realizing what a mess it is. He tries to shove a few things aside, clear a little more space, make it look—not presentable, maybe, but at the very least habitable for human life.

It’s hopeless, he realizes. It doesn’t matter.

The knock comes a moment later—like the buzzer, a little harder, a little longer than necessary, and Mark yanks the door open before they can, in fact, wake the neighbors. Donghyuck is standing at the front of the pack, fist raised to keep knocking, though he lets it fall after a long, tense moment. He’s impassive as he looks at Mark, his face giving nothing away. Mark’s eyes drop down to the bicycle at his side, glad to have a reason to look away, and past him to the other members crowded into the hall with theirs as well. “You couldn’t have left the bikes outside?”

“In a neighborhood like this?” Donghyuck scoffs. “Not if we want them to be there when we get back.” Mark hates that he has a point. “Leave them in the hall,” is all he says. “We won’t all fit in here otherwise.”

They barely fit as it is, the seven of them crammed into Mark’s tiny, dark apartment, but Mark hardly has a chance to feel self-conscious before the door has shut and Jeno starts to speak. “We have a proposal for you.”

“I...what?”

They lay it out for him—only the basics, the bare minimum, and Mark is well aware they’re not telling him everything. Of course they’re not: Dream may be impulsive, reckless, but they’re certainly not stupid. “Don’t tell us this wouldn’t benefit you, too,” Chenle adds when the others are done, gaze drifting over their surroundings disdainfully. Mark ignores him, voicing the one thought that’s been on his mind since they started speaking: “You guys have no reason to trust me.”

“We _don’t_ trust you,” Jaemin says, matter-of-fact, “But we’re willing to give you one last chance to change that.”

“How do you know I won’t sell you out to get back to where I was?”

Mark’s bluffing, and the others know it. “You barely stayed out of prison, hyung.” They’re right: Mark’s only free, for whatever that freedom is now worth, because his superiors didn’t have enough concrete evidence to hold him, to prove the sabotage they were accusing him of. He’d avoided doing any real time, but at the cost of everything else—they won’t be welcoming him back anytime soon. “You’re good at covering your tracks, Mark Lee. I’ll give you that.”

 _“Why?”_ Mark asks. There’s a million questions in that single word: why are you here, why don’t you find a way to do it yourselves, why risk it, why _me,_ of all people. He doesn’t really expect an answer, but not for the first time, Hyuck surprises him. “Because none of us,” he looks around at the other Dream members to confirm and they nod their agreement, some of them more readily than the others, “believe that everything we thought we knew about you was a lie.” He takes a deep, steadying breath, then adds, “Because we were practically family, once—and you don’t turn your back on family.”

There’s a twist in Mark’s gut, a pang somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He wishes he shared their confidence—about who he is, who he was once upon a time. He wishes he could believe it himself.

Then again—maybe this is his chance to start.

Donghyuck’s said his piece, and it’s Renjun’s turn to take the reins. “What d’you say?”

Mark looks around at them, at these people he used to love (never stopped, if he’s honest with himself) in this apartment he’s grown to hate. He’s free now, like they’d wanted all along, from both of the worlds he’d felt trapped between—and yet here they are, asking him to jump back in, and even the potential of it feels closer to freedom than the life he’s been living. They shouldn’t trust him, nor he them, but the truth is, hearing Donghyuck’s voice crackling through the buzzer not an hour ago—for the first time in six months, it felt like waking up, in more than the literal sense. A spark of terror but also hope at even the chance of making amends—making it up to them, making something of himself, making his own decisions, for once—starting here.

The choice is clear. “I’m in.”


End file.
